Goodbye
by Willowsticks
Summary: Richard is posted back to the UK
1. Chapter 1

**Rated M from the beginning (but not all the way through)...**

Richard Poole watched as Saint Marie disappeared in a rush of colour beneath him. As the brief flash of green gave way to azure blue he sat back in his seat and realised with a rise of emotion that he was finally going home. To rain, to the chill of wind, to the comforting grey of fellow commuters and food that didn't try and burn through his oesophagus. His excitement was palpable.

But the rush fell quickly away to sadness. He was also leaving for anonymity, for loneliness, for hard work with no respite, and for no gleaming smile that met him first thing in the morning. That last one seemed particularly difficult to stomach and he felt a sickness he had not felt in a long time rear its ugly head from deep within him.

Regret? Yes, regret was there too but it didn't take the form that he thought it would.

His thoughts turned to the flight ahead and the exhaustion he would surely feel on landing. He wondered briefly if he had been stupid taking the red eye back to London, if he should have given himself more time to prepare for his first day in the office rather than arriving there straight from the airport.

On quick reflection he thought it was one of the best decisions he'd ever made.

* * *

><p>His notice of transfer weeks earlier had been neither sought nor wanted. His boxes were packed, the shack locked and his goodbyes said. He was driving to the airport, never to return; the last time that he would feel his shirt pressed wetly and uncomfortably against his back. Camille had finally run out of small talk and the silence in the car blanketed them like the heat. It lay, stifling, heavy and oppressive. Richard mulled over his own thoughts, his leaving drinks, where his team had gamely tried to get him drunk (and almost succeeded), his luggage, his flight, anything to keep his mind off the woman sitting next to him. By his reckoning he only had a few minutes left before she'd never torture him with silence again.<p>

A speed bump brought him back to his senses as he realised that they had pulled up in the almost empty car park of the airport rather than the more popular drop off zone. Confused, he registered that the engine had been cut off. He looked around, taking in his surroundings, a sparse scattering of cars littered the empty bays, he allowed his pedantic nature to kick in, briefly mentally arranging them by colour coordination before turning to the woman next to him.

"Is the drop off zone full, Camille?"

Her hands held fast to the steering wheel and she was staring resolutely ahead. To Richard it seemed as though she might be trying not to cry, but there was too much hair over her face for him to be really sure. And anyway, it didn't really seem like something Camille would do. She'd been teasing him for the past month about his return to London, making it perfectly clear that he'd no longer be her problem anymore; that he'd have to pick on a new DS; how he could forget all about them.

And he'd sat there, every smile she sent his way causing a dagger like blow to shudder unbidden through his heart, cementing the fact that he would miss her far more than he himself would be missed.

In the silence his ears now picked up on the fact that her breathing was becoming steady again (had it ever been shallow?), almost as if she was exercising a tight command of her emotions. He wondered idly if she was angry with him for not talking on the way to the airport, perhaps she had thought him rude. It would be the last time they were together after all.

He blinked hard as tried not to think about them being together in any capacity. Increasingly it had led to unfulfilled dreams both nocturnal and otherwise, over which he apparently had no control. Certain fantasies had obviously encompassed the schoolboy needs that still existed in him, but he had also increasingly found himself waking from delicious dreams where his subconscious had done nothing more than allow them to swim in the sea together.

While Richard was lost in his musings, Camille was inwardly debating how give a voice to hers. She didn't want to embarrass him, but then wondered why the hell she was bothering. He was nearly gone and she would never see him again. What did it matter? She took another deep breath and let her insecurities tumble out.

Her voice, thick with control, was purposely low and steady, the last thing she wanted was to cry in front of him. "Did you ever like me?"

She was unable to look at him making it easier for him to study her, to try and work out where she was going with this.

"Like you? Yes of course I did. I mean I do. I do like you. Very much." The last statement was almost inaudible. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry if I've done something to upset you. I thought we were friends..."

"We are. I just. I just wanted..." She paused to collect her thoughts again. "Why did you never ask me? You must have known I would have said yes."

"Said yes to what?" It was a question he wasn't quite sure he wanted the answer to.

"I don't know really. A drink, dinner if you wanted it." She shook her head forlornly and finally looked at him. "I thought, after Erzuli that you might have asked."

He ran a hand over his face. He was finding out too late that this beautiful, funny, wonderful woman had wanted him and that he had been too cowardly to do anything about it. He struggled to find the right way to explain his actions to her. "But we always argued, Camille. I thought..." He tailed off, unable to finish the sentence that sounded the death knell on their relationship. He'd never known a silence to be so deafening, his fingers automatically found his collar and tried to loosen his tie as if that would still the effect of drowning that he now felt. Very slowly he reached out and tentatively touched her hand with his fingertips noting the warmth and silk of her skin for the first time.

He had been about to apologise but for the moment he was caught up in wondering what the rest of her might have felt like if he had been a little bolder. He realised that he was still holding on to her and it pulled him back to reality.

"I'm sorry."

She was trying to mask the pain on her face, but in that moment he knew that he had lost something he hadn't even known he'd wanted that badly. He'd assumed that he had been attracted to her because she was beautiful, that he'd wanted her as every other man had wanted her, and he had pushed her away, fearing that he might have perceived her as a conquest. He realised his mistake as she flexed her hand dislodging his in the process. He felt the loss of her skin against his keenly. Nodding and trying to straighten her back as much as she could in her seat, she tried to tell him that it didn't matter anymore, that it didn't do to dwell on something that could never be.

"We should get a move on, I know you don't like to be rushed. Do you want me to drive you closer?"

Mute, in case his voice belied the emotions now coursing through him, he shook his head and got out of the car taking his case from the back seat. Turning around he found that Camille was standing in front of him.

Awkwardness hung between them until she eventually reached out her arms and drew him to her briefly, placing the lightest of kisses on his cheek. Richard absorbed each and every feeling she elicited in him and created a memory of her, the only true one he would have. The way she smelt, the way her lips felt, the slight wetness around her eyes that he still couldn't believe was for him. It was all too much.

She stood back, numbed by the pain of lost chances while Richard's eyes bore into hers. There was nothing to say. There would never be anything to say. She wished one last time for him to fight for her when suddenly he dropped his bag, closed the gap between them and kissed her, his hands gently cupping her face.

It was the perfect goodbye kiss. Long and sweet and tender and heartbreaking. He pulled back. "I'm sorry. I just...wanted to know what it would have been like.

She stood blinking at him as he finished with an almost inaudible. "I hope you'll be happy."

Squaring his shoulders, he heard the car door behind him, echoing in the empty car park and came to the conclusion that she was on her way. That she hadn't even bothered to watch his sorry return to the UK.

"Richard, wait." He turned around to see her apprehensive face. "Change your flight." He looked dumbstruck. "Change your flight, stay with me."

He was struggling to find the right words, to try and explain to her the million reasons why he shouldn't do that. But she was in his arms again, crying and kissing him and his heart was breaking.

"Please stay. Just for the weekend. Stay for us. Then at least we'll know. We'll have more than this."

It was flawed logic, but he was sorely tempted. He knew that if he stayed, it would be perfect. Even if it was awful then it would be perfect. It had to be because it was Camille. And then in two days he would still be on a flight and this goodbye would be a thousand times worse.

Her voice cut through his thoughts. "Richard, please." Her thumb was caressing his face, forcing his eyes to find hers, her fingers curling and clutching round to the hair at the nape of his neck, and he crumbled, nodding his ascent as he kissed her again, manoeuvring them both back towards the car.

Pressing her up against the door Camille was overwhelmed by the voracity of his passion, his hot breath, his tongue, his mouth, dancing over her lips and her skin, lighting her nerve endings on fire where he passed.

He stopped and rested his head against the hot metalwork of the car before practically growling at her to get in the car.

She did as she was told and pulled herself into the driver's seat, still in a daze. She looked over at him and he was already on the phone.

"Its Detective Inspector Poole, I need to change my flight...no it can't wait, my flight leaves in two hours...no I won't hold..." She giggled as he balled his fists in frustration. He had clearly been put on hold. "Hello?...Yes I need to change my flight..." There was a quick exchange between them as he spun a perfect lie that revolved around his inability to leave whilst in the middle of an investigation which resulted in him saying "Sunday?" He flashed a look at Camille, he didn't want to push his luck if she only wanted him for one night. She nodded enthusiastically. "Sunday's fine, 6pm." His voice raised an octave briefly as her hand found his thigh. He cleared his throat and continued. "Can you email me?...Yes that's right. Thank you."

He hung up the phone and looked up to find her smiling at the road, then glanced at the speedometer. She was definitely speeding. She noticed his line of vision.

"I'm not going to slow down."

"I didn't ask you to."

Her smile broadened. "Aren't you even going to ask me to put both hands on the wheel?"

He looked as though he was seriously considering it until her fingers tensed a little bringing his attention back to the hand she was resting on his thigh. He watched as her thumb nervously danced a light pattern against his leg, enjoying her caress and warmth of her through the material of his trousers before she removed it to change gear. She didn't replace it, and although Richard missed the contact he decided that in this instance he was happy to have her concentration back on the road.

Pulling into her drive they now face a new challenge; Richard's earlier ardour had been dampened somewhat by the fact that her hand had not been replaced on his thigh. In the ensuing silence as he was contemplating whether his change of flight had been the right thing to do, she seemed to realise that his hesitancy and lack of confidence did not signal a lack of interest. Leaning forward, she kissed him lightly, gently trying to reassert his earlier mood and hint that in the very least they should get out of the car and talk. But eager to start where they had left off in the car park, his kiss was decidedly more enthusiastic.

As she climbed into his lap, he began to wonder if there was a quick release button to recline his seat when he saw her reaching for the door, holding his hand as she practically barrel rolled onto the ground and pulling him to her front door. He remembered pinning her up against the wall in her hall while he shed his jacket and she took care of his shirt buttons and his tie. But the rest of Richard's memory of how they got to bed was hazy. All he remembered was her lips, her hands, the weight of her and the trail of clothing that they left in her hall as he carried her towards her bedroom.

* * *

><p>Her hand cupped Richard's face as he curled around her, caressing the beginnings of his stubble. She imagined them like iron filings pressing up towards her moving hand like an undulating wave and a smile touched her lips at the thought that her control over his body might extend to the unnatural as well as the functional. Her hand continued as she recounted their evening together thus far. Their initial love making had been every bit as passionate as she had expected it to be given their arguments, but if she was honest then she would have admitted to herself that there might have been something missing, that they had worked together purely on the basis of that passion alone and that their technique might have been lacking.<p>

But that had been their first time.

For their second time he had seemed to realise this too and had broken away from their kiss to take her hand in his and move it downwards towards the apex of her thighs. She had initially been unsure of what he wanted from her, her hand had remained resolutely under his, shielding herself from him, his own personal Venus de Milo laid out before him in her naivety.

But her innocence was short lived as she realised that he was nervous, his eyes belying his previous show of confidence and his voice when he found it was a whisper, his dry mouth causing the words to fall from him, uncertain and unsteady as he asked her to teach him. She knew then what he wanted and her uncertainties evaporated with her understanding. If anything told her that the weekend wasn't just a weekend that he wanted more, then it was this.

His eyes flicked between studying the rhythmic motion of her hand; the pressure, the speed; to her face. The way it tilted first to the ceiling and then towards him; her body in fluid motion; her eyes fluctuating between shutting and staring. He watched her excitement bloom and just before she reached her peak his hand returned to hers helping her towards her release. When at last it came, he moved to make love to her again, riding it out until he felt her still beneath him, too tired to move anymore and he rolled away, curling himself around her. Ironically it was Richard who had fallen asleep first, arm splayed haphazardly across her.

He shifted from his doze next to her, shaking his head in a move designed to get her to stop the constant attention to his face that had now become annoying. She stopped instantly, wiling him back to sleep, settling herself next to him, her heart sinking as she thought of how little time they had left.

* * *

><p>Richard had been aware that his first attempt at making love to Camille had been frantic, torrid and blissful. A quick fix for feelings that had been repressed for too long. He remembered the heat that enveloped him, the roll of her hips into his, the feel of her hands on his shoulder blades, his back, his backside and the way her pupils dilated before she cried out and stilled as he collapsed on top of her.<p>

But he also knew that the euphoric nature of their first time together could never be repeated (although he hoped there would still be passion) and that behind it lay an un-enticing myriad of do's and don'ts. He only hoped he could live up to her expectations. He didn't want to be a joke that she laughed about with her friends after his departure on Sunday.

He had never been the most impulsive of men but in that moment he knew that if he was leaving then he wanted Camille to remember him as someone who actually gave a damn, someone who was better than the others. He moved forward and kissed her again, hoping that his body would be able to support his renewed vigour.

It had. He remembered the feeling of frustrated patience as he watched her, noting every flush, every movement, every change in tempo she made, memorising it for the future, even if there was no future, ensuring that she could never lie to him about this.

With a jolt, he opened his eyes and found himself back on the plane surrounded by strangers, his memories fading quickly with the embarrassment of being in public. There was a slight buzz in the air caused by the pressure, the muted light from overhead bulbs as people read and the hum of conversations that nobody wanted overheard. Among the hushed footfalls of the cabin crew as they silently stalked the cramped aisles he realised that nothing seemed real anymore. He surreptitiously studied those closest to him to see if he had given his thoughts away, a slight flush creeping over his collar. To those that were still awake he was invisible, just as he had always been.

He closed his eyes again and allowed himself to drift back to the woman he had left behind. He'd had 48 perfect hours. Waking on Saturday morning had been everything that he could have wished for and more. He had shown her in every way how much she meant to him, what he could do for her. His flushed deepened as he recalled her very enthusiastic response.

But he had also been right in thinking that leaving the second time had been harder. Much harder. She had insisted on driving him to the airport again. Partly because he wouldn't have been able to call a taxi without causing gossip but mostly because it had meant that she'd had a few extra precious minutes with him. Their goodbye in the car park that final time had been noisy but for entirely different reasons as Camille tried desperately to stop sobbing on his shoulder.

He ran his mind's eye back over her, memorising everything he had learnt about her body over the weekend. A lover's knowledge. The small mole on the back of her thigh, the pronounced arch of her foot, the strength of her, the feel of the back of her nails against his skin as she trailed her hands across his chest. She flashed before his eyes and he wondered if he hadn't made a mistake by not committing to her fully, by not going back.

He wished that there had been something that he could have said to comfort her, but there was nothing. He was leaving. They had studiously ignored any topic of conversation that had related to the future, Richard had known everything he had needed to from their first kiss. But what was the point in telling her that he was in love? They now lived in different countries and he would probably have a found a way to muck up their relationship within a couple of weeks anyway.

It was better left this way.


	2. Chapter 2

For the first week that he was back, she had haunted him. Everything reminded him of her. Even things that didn't remind him of her reminded him of her. The comfort of the drizzle reminded him of her because he knew that she wouldn't like it. The ordinariness of the plain clothes police officers reminded him of her because he knew that her bright clothing would have made her stick out like a sore thumb. The respect his colleagues afforded him because of his job title reminded him of her because he knew she would never have been so deferential.

He held out until the end of the week before he could bear it no longer. Waking on Saturday, the first of his days off, without the rush of work to prepare for, he felt truly alone for the first time since his return. He lay back and imagined her warmth against him, her tangle of hair and her breath tickling his skin. He felt the beginnings of lust stir within him and without thinking reached for his phone dialling her number. It rang once before he realised the time difference and quickly cut the line. His mistake had cost him his arousal. Resigning himself to a day on his own, unpacking his boxes from storage he was half out of bed when his phone sprung to life, the tone shrieking at him like a banshee. Four rings. Five rings. He debated whether to let it go to answer phone. Six rings. He picked up but didn't trust himself to speak.

"Hello?" Her voice, he hadn't quite realised until now just how much he had missed her voice. It was thick with sleep.

"Hi."

"Hi." Silence. He could imagine her frantically blinking her eyes, trying to wake up.

"I'm sorry, I forgot about the time difference. Did I wake you?"

"I don't mind." He could hear the sleepy smile in her voice and his heart soared.

"Camille, its 4 in the morning..."

"Well then, this had better be important or I'm going to get angry." How was it possible that he had missed her teasing?

There was another uncomfortable moment of silence as Richard tried to decide what to say. He heard a sigh. "You know Richard when you leave a woman sobbing at the airport you don't have to wait 5 days to let her know that you've landed safely. Not unless you're trying to tell her something."

"I know I'm sorry. I, um, I got caught up with work."

She felt an ominous weight in her stomach at his excuse, suddenly realising that this wasn't going to be the romantic late night conversation that she had been hoping for. She tried fishing for a compliment, hoping to ease the truth out of him.

"I thought you might have been avoiding me..."

He didn't answer. He wasn't sure if he had been avoiding her. The exquisite pain of hearing her voice, the vivid memories, he had needed to forget a little.

Her heart sank and her voice tightened. "You're not embarrassed about what happened between us are you?"

In the space of 30 seconds they had stumbled into dangerous territory. He wasn't really sure what he wanted anymore, or rather, he knew exactly what he wanted, but also what he couldn't have. He should never have called her.

"No!"

"So you don't regret it?"

He was indignant now. "Of course not!"

"So why didn't you call? And please don't hide behind work again because if you like someone then you make time to talk to them. Unless you're trying to avoid me for some reason?" She had a thought, a horrible thought that she didn't really want to give countenance to. But she had to. "Unless...it didn't mean anything. Is that why you haven't called?"

"No, that's not..." He was hurt that she could think that it might just have been about that. That she didn't know him better. He wanted to tell her that he felt lonely without her, that he would have done anything to have rewound the last week and woken up with her in his arms again. But his mouth dried up and his courage failed him.

There apparently was no avoiding this. Again, he silently cursed the fact that he had rung her and words tumbled from his mouth before he could stop himself.

"I just wanted to talk to you." It was the nearest approximation to what he actually wanted to say without giving himself away.

"About what? About how you haven't called for a week?" She misread his loneliness for the beginning of a break up conversation and inadvertently triggered it.

He sighed. "This is why I didn't call. Because of this, because we argue. I just think that we need to be careful, we're in danger of living in a fantasy because we're 6,000 miles apart and..."

"So, you think I need to grow up," she searched for the word, "get real?" The imagined slight and her freshly revealed insecurities combined forcefully as the need to protect herself became overpowering.

"That's not what I said Camille."

She fell back to sarcasm and attack as the best form of defence. "Because I'm a child living in a fantasy land, daring to dream that one day my knight in silver armour will come and pick me up and take me away from my horrible job and my horrible friends."

"Shining."

"What?"

"Shining armour." He realised too late that his correction wouldn't do anything to calm her down. "Never mind."

"So now I can't speak English properly either?"

"That's not what I meant. Camille, it's 4 in the morning. Perhaps..."

"Perhaps I misunderstood you because I'm not fully awake. Or perhaps I misunderstood you because I can't speak English properly. It's my fault again." Somewhere, in her conscience she knew he was right. It was very early in the morning and her brain perhaps wasn't at its most functional. It only made her more stubborn. "You know Richard. At least I try. You spent 2 years with us and you didn't even bother to try and learn French. You never bother with anything. You didn't even bother to call to see if I was ok after you got back. It's pathetic."

She hung up and he was left holding his phone bemusedly wondering what he had done wrong this time. All he had tried to do was explain himself to her. He rang her back and got her voicemail. "Come on Camille, let's not be childish about this..." He took a deep breath and then continued. She should at least know how he felt. He owed her that much.

His phone rang back 5 minutes later and he could feel her anger roll down the phone at him in waves even before she unleashed her barrage of abuse.

"I'm childish? You think I'm childish? You are the most emotionally repressed man I've ever met, you can't communicate with anyone on an adult level... Instead you are arrogant and pompous and rude and, and..." She scrabbled around for other adjectives to describe him, "anally retentive."

"Camille, I'm not...none of those things make me childish, did you even listen to my whole..." He was confused, wrong footed by the intensity of her rage aimed directly at him when all he had done was leave a voice mail.

"Oh no, because heaven forbid you be childish Richard. That you have fun or laugh or enjoy yourself. Because then people might actually think you have a sense of humour and want to spend time with you.

"Your world is cold and ordered and boring. You are boring Richard because you don't ever let anything happen to you. You're even fighting the possibility of us being together because you don't want anything to upset your perfect little world."

He was collapsing under such a personal attack. It was clear to him from her last sentence that she had heard his message and she still didn't understand. He managed to stammer out a resistance imploring her to stop. It went unheeded.

"You never think of anyone else! Do you know what I've been doing for the past week? Or feeling? Do you even care? Or have you just been thinking of yourself, how last weekend affected you, or perhaps you just patted yourself on the back because you managed to squeeze in a holiday romance before you left and now you never have to see me again.

"You want to know why you're alone Richard? You are alone because you want to be alone. You have no passion, no soul. You don't care about anyone except yourself because you've never wanted to let anyone in. And I tried. I tried so hard with you, even when everyone told me not to bother, because I wanted to get to know the real you. But you know what? It turns out that the real you isn't very nice.

She paused, waiting for a retort. She was met with silence but rather than feeling triumph she felt guilt.

He swallowed, trying to rid his voice of unwanted emotion threatening to engulf him, when he spoke his voice was full of bitterness. "Well I'm sorry that your social experiment was such a waste of your time. I can only hope that you have better luck with the next defenceless Englishman who crosses your path."

"Richard, I didn't mean..."

"I have to go Camille. I have to get on..." He almost finished it with 'my life' but that felt too final, and he couldn't bring himself to say it, to signal the end, even if that was what she wanted.

The line rang dead in her ear as she threw the phone across the room in frustration and annoyance.

She sat up in bed, resting her head against the headboard, fully awake and furious that she'd allowed him to get under her skin again. A week. A whole week and apparently they were back to square one. She tried to lie down, tossing and turning waiting for sleep that was now totally out of reach replaying their conversation over and over again, her initial excitement to hear from him followed by her hurt and anger.

At every replay though her determination to hear a slight in his words grew less and less until she found herself scrabbling on the floor in the pale light of dawn looking for her phone. With a feeling of dread she dialled her voicemail and breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the word childish again, vindicated that she hadn't imagined it.

She had been right.

"_Come on Camille, let's not be childish about this..._

But in her pursuit for the truth she had remained on the line long enough to hear his sigh as he collected his thoughts and haltingly began to speak again.

"_I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, it doesn't really reflect what I'm trying to say, but I can't really ever think properly when I'm talking to you. And I'm sorry that you think I don't care. I do. I really do. _

"_Work has been...exhausting and I can't stop thinking about you. I know you think that I'm using it as an excuse but I'm not, there's so much to learn and to organise. I just... I just..." _He took another deep breath and she could almost hear his dejection.

"_I woke up this morning and for the first time I was able to think about us without everything else getting in the way and I...I just wanted to hear your voice. But you're right, I could have called sooner and I didn't because I'm scared and I just think that we need to take a step back and really think about what we want. And I'm not presuming to know what you want, God - you probably don't even want the same thing that I do, but if...on the small off chance that you do, then we need to talk about this properly because I want to try. I want us to work so badly but I'm not sure if I can start something that's not going anywhere Camille because... I'm not sure I'd get over it as easily as you might. _

_I'm not explaining myself very well. Um...maybe just think about what you want, sleep on it and call me when we can both talk properly. _

She listened to his message in full for the first time, and then began to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

As Richard stumbled through the door a wave of nausea and self loathing overwhelmed him. He had spent the last two hours in the company of friends who had extolled the virtues of their latest single girlfriend. With a sigh he realised that it was only ever couples who he met up with now and even those were few and far between.

This one had been no different, organised under the obligation of a friendship forged long ago and almost burnt out under the passage of time. He had no idea why Andrew had had to bring his bloody wife with him. She had changed the atmosphere completely and instead of a quiet drink to catch up he had been subjected to two hours of match making alongside a complete decimation of his character. He couldn't fathom why married men were no longer masters of their own social calendars. But then again he also couldn't understand why he (if he'd listened to the harridan) would be a better catch if he was divorced rather than a bachelor.

Perhaps if he had been divorced it would have shown women that he had at least tried, been willing to make a go of it with someone, that he wasn't too hideous for someone to have made a go of it with him. But he was single, and perennially so. He was reminded, not for the first time of how his non-existent relationship with Camille had ended. Her voice echoing in his ears about him not trying.

He wasn't sure if he was sober enough to resist calling her tonight. He wasn't sure if he cared either.

It had been two weeks since _that_ phone call. He had been back for longer than he cared to recollect and her absence by his side, both physically and by way of support was almost too much for him to bear. He had thought that he would have been over this by now. That the weight of his workload would have crushed it out of him. But the silence he came home to every night was a constant reminder of how much he missed her, how much he needed to hear her voice even if they did end up arguing. Surely the pain of her words were better than no words at all?

With a sudden rush of consciousness he looked down to see his phone in his hand and realised that after the evening he had just had he actually wanted to text her. For comfort. For old times sake. He wanted to be friends with her. He'd always wanted that.

Without thinking he typed out a bland message.

_Hows the new DI settling in? _

The reply was gratifyingly instant.

_Fine. We miss the old one though. _

_We_. Well that was that then. She was over it. The pain he felt was immeasurable, the need to take a bath with a toaster suddenly appealing.

Another text.

_I miss the old one. _

He texted back without thinking.

_I miss the old one too._

He pressed send then looked at the message. Shit. It didn't even make any sense. And knowing Camille she would probably think that he was calling her old.

His phone rang. He picked it up, apologising instantly.

"Sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Are you drunk Richard?"

"A little. Actually probably more than a little." He remembered more than a couple of drinks as he'd listened to Andrew's wife (damn he couldn't even remember her name) harp on about something or other as he tried to drown her out through alcohol.

He could hear her smiling down the phone at him. "Have you had a good evening then?" 

"No it was decidedly awful." Her smile turned into a laugh. "Camille, why don't women let men go out on their own once they're married?" Her laughter stopped as she realised that his loneliness spoke volumes behind his innocuous question.

"You're asking me like I know the answer. I'm not married either, remember?"

"But, if you were married. Would you insist on going everywhere your husband went?"

"No." He thought that her voice sounded wistful, possibly a little hopeful. But he was drunk.

"They don't do it when they're just girlfriends, only when they're married. I don't understand. Do all men suddenly become untrustworthy?"

"Can I infer then a friend decided to bring his wife with him this evening?"

She heard him groan. "It was awful. She wouldn't shut up about this friend of hers she wanted to set me up with. Hideous."

"How do you know she's hideous?"

"Oh I don't, the whole concept's hideous." Then as an afterthought. "I hate blind dates."

There was a thoughtful pause on the other end of the phone while Camille remembered him almost saying as much and digested the news that Richard wasn't interested in meeting up with anyone else. He seemed to think that she was bored.

"Sorry. I'm being morose." He was wandering around the house in his socks, absentmindedly skating on the kitchen tiles like a naughty school boy. The alcohol ensured the loss of his inhibitions. He stopped in front of the fridge and opened it to survey the contents of his bachelor lifestyle. The artificial light cast a small spot light on him, the star role in his own singular existence. It made him feel slightly reckless. He took a bottle out from the shelf and opened it with a hiss.

"Are you drinking beer Richard?"

"Mmmm." He acquiesced guiltily. "Turns out that I quite like it after all. Easier than getting draft in here."

"Anything else you quite liked while you were out here?" They were flirting easily again, a new slate. He sidestepped the question.

"A few things. So how's that new DI?"

"Friendly." Richard grunted, aware that he hadn't been at his most self-effacing when he had first met the team. "Perhaps a little too friendly..."

"Oh?"

"It's probably nothing."

"Is it _just a feeling that you have...?" _He teased her gently, putting on an over enthusiastic French accent. God, he must be drunk.

He could hear the warmth in her voice as she laughed. "It might be..."

He sighed inwardly, reminded of the fact that Camille was on the other side of the world and, worse, fair game for any man who took a fancy to her. Which was probably most men. He couldn't really blame the new guy. He might as well laugh about it, there was nothing else he could do. "Well in my opinion, there's nothing worse than a DI with the hots for his sergeant." She giggled, amazed at how easily he could talk to her about this.

"Maman loves him. He's managed to charm pretty much the whole island."

"But not you..."

She shrugged then realised he couldn't see her so clarified, "like I said, I miss the old one."

"Well the old one misses you too."

"You managed to get it right that time."

He looked down and realised that he had managed to drink nearly all of his beer. "Yes, surprising given that I'm now more drunk than I was at the beginning of this conversation..."

"I'm not turning you to drink am I?"

He thought about how easily he could turn to drink to numb the loss of her, then pulled himself together. "Certainly not, I'm going to bed."

"Do you want me to say goodnight?"

"No..." She listened in amusement as his phone was thrown on his bed and she heard certain ruffled movements around the room as his clothes came off.

"Hello?"

"I'm still here. Are you in your pyjamas?"

"No." Her stomach flipped as she thought of the other options.

"Aren't you going to do your teeth?"

"Too drunk. What are you doing tonight?"

"Drinks with a couple of friends."

"Make sure they don't bring their husbands with them.

She laughed. "What makes you think I'm meeting women?"

"Oh." He sounded crestfalled all of a sudden.

She put him out of his misery. "I am meeting women, don't worry."

He made a valiant effort to be nonchalant. "I'm not worried." He was getting bed spin so sat up in an effort to combat it. He heard her ruffling and pictured her changing for the evening. "What are you wearing?"

"What would you like me to be wearing?" Her question was definitely provocative. This was getting dangerous.

"Fishermen's waders." He collapsed into giggles when he heard Camille's confused exclamation down the line as he tried to diffuse the sexual tension that was already bubbling between them.

Laughing, he said, "I'm sorry..." then realised that she might not have understood his humour. He sighed. "Look it isn't any of my business who you're meeting up with or what you're doing tonight. I didn't mean to imply..."

"I know." But she wanted to add that if he was jealous then she wouldn't have minded. "I'm wearing my green dress."

"Oh. Not the red one?" He tried to sound casual.

"No," she paused unsure of whether to tell him the reason for her not wearing that one. For her never wearing that one.

He nodded, unlike Camille too drunk to realise that she couldn't see him.

"Richard, I know it's not the right time, but...I'm sorry. About last time."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not. I didn't mean any of those things I said. There's just something about us. We always seem to argue."

"We're doing alright at the moment."

She felt a flush of inane pride at the fact that they had been able to last this long without shouting.

"Richard?"

He was drifting. "Mmmmmm"

"You need to drink some water."

"mmmmmmm."

"Richard!"

He woke up with a rush and she heard him mutter something about her being a nag before she heard him gulp down something that was clearly on his bedside table.

"Better?"

"Better."

"Good. Because if you're not careful you'll end up like Dwayne. Ice pack on your head in the station."

He snorted. "Might give me some street cred. I'm afraid that they all think I'm rather dull."

"I don't think you're dull." Her voice was kind.

"You've changed your tune." He had said it as a joke but it had a sobering effect on both of them as they remembered their last conversation.

After a time she said. "They're just words Richard. I didn't mean them."

"I know. You'd better go, don't want you to be late."

"Ok. Let me know how that hangover is..." He chuckled. "Oh Richard? I'm wearing the black ones. With the lace."

She hung up and he found himself groaning with longing for the woman he had left behind and the relationship that had never been.


	4. Chapter 4

Their phone calls over the past month had become more frequent. Richard wasn't sure when they had begun, or whether they were good for his mental health. Every hello gave him hope, and every good bye reminded him that there was none. He had no chance of moving on while they continued and on the whole he was fine with that. He didn't think that had a chance of settling down with anyone now anyway and had resigned himself to being on his own a long time ago, long before Camille had temporarily and gloriously ruined that original plan.

If he was honest, he was flattered by the thought that she still wanted to keep in touch, and that more often than not, she called him. But if his vanity was flattered then it wouldn't stretch to his admitting that her calling meant she wanted anything other than friendship and advice.

So he was in limbo with no hope of getting out. He only hoped that Camille didn't read as much in to their phone calls as he did. He was almost certain that she didn't, but there were times when he wondered if her causal enquiries into friends, especially those of the female variety, hid feelings of a deeper nature. On his part he tried to hide the smile in his voice when he spoke to her, but knew that after about 30 seconds he failed miserably. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to laugh like this with anyone or been accepted so completely for who he was.

Then there were those glorious conversations which seemed to fade almost as soon as he put the phone down. They covered every topic imaginable but whenever he tried to recall them, his thoughts would shift like sand and the specifics would become lost forever, leaving him only with the feeling of intense pleasure. It had been a long time since he had had a confidant, and he unconsciously found himself revealing thoughts that he'd had no idea were bothering him; problems and vexations that he had been carrying around since almost before he could remember. He thought it helped that she couldn't see him, it made it easier to unburden himself when he couldn't gauge her reaction or see the invariable roll of her eyes.

Sometimes, after she had hung up, he'd lie in bed and try to unravel the hidden nuances in her voice, her teasing tone that did nothing to hide the smile that he could picture on her face. And he couldn't help but mimic her. She had never been more intoxicating to him.

Six thousand miles away Camille hung up the phone and contemplated her evening. She had plans. She always had plans, and tonight was no different. She was out with friends. But the more she thought about going the more she didn't want to. She never seemed to want to anymore. It felt dishonest somehow, dressing up and whiling away her time in a bar; pretending to check out guys so that her friends could try and cajole her into talking to them. It felt like cheating. _Cheating on a non-existent relationship_, she chastised herself.

Even what she now wore to work felt wrong too and as the weeks had ticked by her clothing had shifted accordingly, away from the bright and provocative outfits she used to wear. Her wardrobe was now uncoordinated and thrown together; even her underwear (something she used to take such pride in) was dull, her subconscious gently reinforcing the fact that there was no point in it when she wasn't going to be showing anyone.

With a sigh she told herself again that he wasn't coming back. She knew that and yet still she tormented herself by clinging on to the phone calls between them like a school girl with a crush, eeking out information piece by piece, despite desperately trying to hide her feelings from him at the same time. She had a surprising amount of information within her grasp, but it was mostly work related. She wasn't sure if this was because it was the only thing they had in common or if he was hiding his personal life from her or (and please let this one be true!) he didn't have a private life. It wasn't too much to ask was it? He hadn't really had a private life when he had lived on Saint Marie. But perhaps that had been because it was a small island and no one had really caught his eye. _Apart from me, _she thought sullenly at the missed opportunity that her unchecked temper had caused.

Still, it didn't do to sulk. Turning her ipod on, she opened her cupboard to assess its contents. She needed to forget. She needed fun.

Her bedroom came into bleary focus as she opened her eyes, the pain behind her eyelids intensifying as sleep regressed. She took into account the daylight creeping around the edges of her blinds, the general clutter that seemed endless and the more recent detritus of her collapse into bed the night before. Her eyes settled on the empty side of the bed. She was alone and for an instant her heart sank as she realised he was so far away. Then she rallied, realising that she had been drunk enough last night to have easily woken up with company. She was alone. Thank God.

She remembered her friends accompanying her home along with a very enthusiastic addition to their number. In the raucousness of the ensuing party he had tried to kiss her more than once. He was sweet, and on the whole someone who should have been good for her. But in comparison to Richard, he was a boy, at least it felt like he was a boy. _Perhaps he had a thing for cougars_, she thought wryly and she felt guilty as she had remembered the way that she had flirted with him, leading him towards an idea that was never going to happen. Perhaps it had been unfair of her, but the sick feeling that had risen in her stomach as he had tried to close the gap between them attested to the fact that she didn't want him. She had just wanted to feel attractive again. To have been wanted.

The noise came again and she suddenly realised why she had woken. There was an incessant thumping coming from downstairs. Her palm involuntarily found her temple as she made her way towards the front door, cracking it open and making a supreme effort not to grimace as she saw the same eager boy from the night before on her doorstep. She was not in the mood for another clumsy assault on her person. She was clearly unsuccessful in her attempt to disguise her wariness as he took a step back to prove that he didn't pose a threat. Or so she thought. On closer inspection she realised that he was studying her.

He took in her appearance, and the look he gave her suddenly made her aware of the fact that she probably didn't look her best. With a bite of annoyance she realised that she had lost the upper hand of their tête á tête that she had acquired last night as the sexy older woman. A vain thought now tugged at her as she realised that he was probably thanking his lucky stars that he hadn't succeeded. She had smudged makeup and was wearing shorts and a baggy t shirt. Richard's t shirt, the only thing that she had managed to steal away from him. Despite the lengths she had gone through to acquire it, it lived in the bottom of her drawer, out of sight and out of mind. Until last night, when in her drunken state she had clearly decided to put it on. She had no idea what he'd even used it for, he had been too embarrassed when she had insisted that she was going to keep it to elaborate on why he had it. But she had assumed it was for exercise. But knowing him, it was more likely that he had worn it under his shirts.

She'd remembered putting it on the first night that he'd been gone, burying her nose under the neckband and breathing in heavily trying to discern any residual scent left by him. But there was nothing except the faint hint of washing powder. She always felt disappointed by this, let down by the distinct blandness of it all. The one item she had to remember him by was incapable of representing its owner faithfully, neither by its nature or by its use.

She snapped out of her musings to find the man in front of her had begun talking. "Sorry, I know it's early, but I need my phone." Her eyes closed tightly shut in an effort to concentrate. He could see that she was struggling to understand. "I think I left it here. She didn't say anything but opened the door and signalled that he should come in concluding that if he'd been in her house when she was drunk then he posed no threat when she was sober, if a little hungover.

"Thanks, I'll, um, let myself out."

She gave him an apologetic smile, "Sorry."

He shook his head, "no problem. Big night." She nodded and made her way up the stairs.

Surveying her living room he had no idea where to start. Looking at the evidence in front of him he now understood the severity of her hangover but was slightly perplexed as to how he had managed to escape. Scouring the table and sides he made the decision that he would be quicker if he could actually hear it. He reached for her landline and dialled his number, rewarded by a dull vibrating noise coming from the sofa. Hanging up, he started by feeling under the cushions for his phone, wary at what he might find there. His fingers closed around something hard and rectangular almost immediately. Bingo. He was about to push himself to his feet when he heard the ring tone of another. It was on the verge of ringing off when he pushed his hand under the sofa and made a grab for it. He answered it without thinking.

"Hello?"

"Oh." The surprise in his voice was unmistakable. "I was hoping to speak to Camille. Is she around?"

"Ahhh, I think she's upstairs getting dressed."

"Right." He now sounded dejected. "Right. Well, I'll um...try again later. Thanks."

"Do you want me to tell her you called?"

"No." He was firm. "No, its fine. Thanks again."

He was in the process of putting the phone down when Camille, summoned by her ring tone, came into the room.

She was confused. "Is that my phone?"

"Yeah, some guy. I told him you were getting dressed." He seemed pleased that he had been able to help.

She made a thinly veiled snatch for her phone, scrolling through her recent phone calls. Her worst fear was confirmed. Richard.

She fixed him with a glare and sounded petulant. "Why did you do that?"

He gave an embarrassed shrug conveying the fact that he wasn't really sure what he had meant to achieve by answering his phone, other than the fact that he thought he was being helpful and began to fidget. Aware that he had probably overstayed his welcome and that he didn't really want to ask her out anymore, he beat a hasty retreat blustering something about what a great night it had been and how he'd see her around.

She heard the door click shut before hitting the redial button without even thinking about it.

"Hello?" He seemed confused.

"Hi."

"Camille?"

"Who did you think it would be?"

From his embarrassed silence it became apparent that perhaps he thought that last night's conquest was calling him back.

"I thought you were busy."

"No. Hungover, but not busy." She was glad that he had called despite the raging pounding in her head.

"Don't you have um," he tried to find a way to politely enquire whether she was still on her own, "friends over?"

"No. And he isn't a friend. Just someone I met last night." She suddenly realised, from his dejected silence, how that sounded. "He left his phone here." Oh God it was getting worse. His silence continued and she began to panic as she made her way through the house, determined to make it back under the covers of her bed to hide from the day. "He didn't stay or anything." Now it wasn't even a one night stand, just a sordid encounter. She squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples. Her hangover was making it difficult to concentrate. She was in dire need of a coffee. "I mean, he came back with a group of friends and left with my group of friends too. Nothing happened." Quite why she felt the need to impart this last piece of information escaped her, she now felt annoyed with herself.

"Oh." A small smile had crept back on to his face and into his voice. She gave a little groan as her temples throbbed and the light hurt her eyes. The explanation had taken more out of her than she would have liked. As always he picked up on it.

"So, how hungover are you?"

She allowed herself the luxury of a louder moan. "Let's just say, I'm pretty sure that he didn't find me an arresting sight this morning. Or if he did, it was for the wrong reasons."

She heard him laugh and then mutter, "they go to bed with Gilda and wake up with me," but didn't understand what he was talking about and felt too nauseous to ask.

"I don't even remember drinking that much." She heard a squeak down the line. "No, my drinks weren't spiked, I just lost track of them."

"But you might not know." The panic was beginning to set in.

"Richard, I'm fine." She was beginning to think that this conversation wasn't going to be as relaxing as she had first thought.

"Did you feel confused when you woke up?"

"Of course I did, _I'm hungover_."

"Do you have blurry vision?"

"Not any more, I'm fine!"

"But you used to have blurry vision." He didn't wait for her answer. "I need a picture."

"What?"

"Your eyes, Camille. I need to see your eyes."

"Why?" She felt like crying with frustration.

"To check if you're ok."

"Richard..." she was whining now.

"Just take a picture Camille."

She huffed as she put him on speakerphone and sat up, turning the camera on her phone on, before holding it at arm's length and glaring into it as the shutter came down, knowing the only way he would accept her version of events was to do as she was told.

There was a pause as the message sent. "Now do you believe me?" She heard a curious noise down the line and realised he might be laughing. She collapsed into her bed and pulled the sheets over her head. "What's so funny?"

"Well, your expression for one." She grimaced at the thought that the only picture he had seen of her since he left was one where she looked awful. "But mostly because you still haven't put that picture up above your bed." He was referring to a painting that should have been on the wall behind her but had been propped up on her dresser for the last few months. Every morning she was determined to hang it and every day she seemed to forget. It stood there, day in, day out, mocking her.

"I asked you to do it!" She said huffily.

"And if I remember correctly, once I said I would do it, you said that DIY skills were very attractive in a man and we didn't get much further."

It had happened again, the gentle flirting deepening into something more tangible. Again, it fell to one of them to try and steer them away from it.

Camille was still hoping that the sheets around her were going to somehow block out the thumping in her brain. All she knew was that the more she thought about nothing, the worse her hangover felt. Perhaps a walk...her body heaved at the thought of sea air. If she lacked the energy to get out of bed for some fresh air then she needed something else to take her mind off it. She needed him to carry on talking. "So...what's up?"

He gave a short burst of breath. "Nothing much."

"Oh come on Richard. You've just got back from work and you just happened to want to call me?" She sounded more aggressive than she would have liked. She tried to temper her tone. "I mean, are you sure nothing happened that made you want to call me?" She interpreted his silence as an affirmation of her deduction rather than acknowledging the other distinct possibility that he just wanted to talk to her about nothing. "Want to talk about it?"

"What?"

"You know what. How bad was he?" She inferred that his silence had been accompanied with a frustrated roll of the eyes. "That bad?"

He gave an annoyed sigh. "It's fine. He's just young. And impetuous."

"He's old enough to know better. Why don't you report him for insubordination?"

"And make me even more unpopular? I'll be fine."

"But it's happening all over again."

He sighed again, more resigned this time and reiterated his first point more strongly. "He's young Camille. And for all his bravado, he doesn't have that much confidence. I don't want to be the one that knocks it all out of him rather than using that bravado and teaching him to be better at his job." As an afterthought he added. "You weren't exactly completely on my side when I first arrived either. In fact, you were pretty insubordinate yourself."

"Only to teach you to trust me a little more. As soon as you did that I stopped. And _I_ didn't do it in front of the rest of the team."

Another sigh. "So what would you have me do? Run to the superintendent?"

"Talk to him." Richard snorted. "Seriously, talk to him. He doesn't sound as if he has no confidence. The way you talk about him makes him sound cocky and arrogant."

"Maybe he is." He conceded. "But what would I say to him? Oh by the way, I'd really appreciate it if you could stop being so disruptive to my investigations?"

He received an unseen smile for his flippancy. "I personally might be a little firmer, but otherwise..." He rolled his eyes again but said nothing. The silence engulfed them again and she enjoyed it for a little while; relishing pretending that they were close enough not to bother with conversation. But finally her curiosity got the better of her.

"What are you thinking about?"

He didn't answer but she waited, knowing that all he needed was time. It finally came when he realised that she wasn't going to rescue him from the dearth of idle chatter. "Just...that..." he swallowed, "I miss," he cleared his throat, "um, I miss..." He changed his mind halfway through the sentence, "you know...you're advice." He cleared his throat. "It's good advice." He trailed off.

"And it's a shame you never take my good advice."

"I do take it. You just always try and make me do something I'm not comfortable with." He was relieved and saddened in equal measure that she had seemed to ignore his emotional faux pas. It was probably for the best.

"That's because my good advice involves getting you out of your comfort zone."

"I don't want to get out of my comfort zone. I'm too old to get out of my comfort zone." He looked around him wryly at the irony of his situation. Sitting in his old chair. On his own. He didn't think he liked his comfort zone much at the moment.

She giggled. "You're not old."

"You should say that with a little more sincerity in order for me to believe you..." He continued before she had a chance to contradict him. "Maybe that's why he hates me. He thinks I'm old."

"You're not _old_." It was said with more force this time.

"Perhaps." It amused him how much she was trying to fight the aging process on his behalf.

"Richard..." the silence had become awkward again. She decided that a little teasing was in order.

"So you think I'm comfortable?" He made appropriately perplexed noises. "That I'm comfortable enough to be within your comfort zone. Like a pair of your old pyjamas?"

"No, I didn't say that. You're not comfortable." The truth was that Camille was so far out of his comfort zone that he could barely process the fact that that one glorious weekend had happened. He tried to imagine her in his house and failed dismally. Never the less he made a mental note to start making some changes. He would get rid of this chair for one. Things that she would like, just in case she wanted to come and visit. As a friend.

She broke into his thoughts again. "So I'm uncomfortable?" There was no way he could win. He started to splutter before she put him out of his misery. "Because I quite like your old pyjamas."

The sudden thought of her in his old pyjamas brought back a more recent memory to mind and he smiled knowing he had her cornered.

"Is that why you're wearing the closest assimilation to them that you have?"

She knew exactly what he was talking about. Perhaps if she hadn't been so hungover she wouldn't have sent a picture to him of her wearing what he was talking about. She hoped by keeping quiet he would move on. He didn't.

"Camille, I only own one t shirt which is now in your possession. I'm pretty sure I can recognise it, even when it's half way around the world."

She made a vague attempt to rebut his accusation. "This is my t shirt!"

He gave a snort of derision. "Nice try. But the nick in the collar proves that it was once mine..." She gave an annoyed sigh and fingered the collar, finding the small hole that he was referring to, so tiny that she had barely seen it herself. Trust him to have noticed it.

"It's comfortable!"

"Which is why it was my only t shirt!"

He privately thought that if the t shirt was one of the reasons that the boy hadn't wanted to stay and chat her up then he was very glad he had left it with her regardless of how comfortable it was.

A sudden thought struck him. "You don't have any more men knocking on your door asking to "find their phones" do you?"

"No," she said sulkily. "I think word will have now reached that particular bracket of eligible bachelors that beneath my make up lies an hungover harridan. I don't think I'll ever be attractive again."

Richard had to stop himself from telling her that she would always have one particular admirer that found her more than attractive. Instead he settled for, "since when have you used the word harridan to describe yourself?" He mentally added that she couldn't even pronounce it properly.

"Since meeting you."

He thought that perhaps, despite her confidence, she had taken some of his badly timed comments to heart. He hated the idea that he might have hurt her. "I don't think you're a harridan." Then because he didn't want her to think that he was being too nice to her said, "not all the time anyway." The little huff she made gave him the impression that she was still upset. The words were out before he could stop himself. "And even when you're hungover, I still think you're the most beautiful..." He cleared his throat aware suddenly that he was becoming overly zealous with his emotions.

"beautiful...?" She fished, hoping that he would finish.

He cleared his throat again. "You know...No. Well, it doesn't matter."

"The most beautiful woman you've ever had sex with?" It was a risqué shot, and she knew it, but she was desperate to try and get him out of his rut. Shake him up a little.

He made the type of embarrassed and strangled noise only a middle aged repressed English man could when the subject of sex was sprung on him. Then managed to compose himself, and laugh it off. "Well, that's pretty obvious." He was temporarily flooded with memories before managing to shake them off. Now was not the time. He ran an embarrassed hand over the side of his face. "I was actually going for 'seen', but we can go with the sex if you like?"

He had done it. He had actually done it. She gave a little victory dance on her back in bed, waving her arms and legs about manically, then tried another probe, more hesitant this time. It was a small victory though, a tiny one. So what if she had got him to tell her she was beautiful. What did it matter. He was still a million miles away from her. A million miles away from where she needed him to be both physically and mentally.

She couldn't help herself, she had to know more. Had to know if it was a mistake, if he still felt something, anything towards her, other than the casual flirting that seemed to exist between them.

"Do you ever think we made a mistake?" _Gently does it, but_ _please say yes, please say yes!_

He nodded his head, his whole body screaming yes at him. But in the silence that followed he ran through their conversations, she had never explicitly told him that she missed him, even when he had said almost said it. She had ignored it. She wore his t shirt because it was comfortable not because it reminded her of him. She had gone out last night with her friends, and brought someone home with her. Even if nothing had happened she had still brought him home. She was so _young_. He couldn't ask her to give that up, to stop being fun for him. And yet against all this he still desperately wanted to tell her. He was on the verge of turning the mute screeching in his head into actual words when his time ran out.

"You're probably right." She tried to keep the pain from her voice. "And I'm so hungover now I can barely string a sentence together. I should go back to bed." He grunted his acknowledgement, not trusting himself to speak.

"I do miss you though Richard. I always miss you."

She cut the line and he found himself, sitting on his own, in his old chair, in the stillness of this house, telling the dial tone that he missed it too.

**The Gilda quote is a lament by Rita Hayworth on how men wanted the image of her most famous on screen character and not the reality of her as a woman. **


	5. Chapter 5

**So - another one of those chapters - hopefully not too bad though...**

**I've also introduced Humphrey. I'm not planning on watching series 4 and only watched a few of episodes of series 3 so forgive me if I haven't got the character quite right. But in all honestly its an original story using the established characters of Richard and Camille so it will probably be different to what you know in all respects anyway...**

**Let me know if there are any glaring errors though...**

It was raining.

But even that fact hadn't admitted her under the stoop of the house she was currently standing outside. Camille could only marvel at the rudeness of Londoners. This would never have happened on Saint Marie. She was pretty certain that anyone on the island would have whisked her in out of the dank air and provided a towel and a hot drink while she recovered. But this was England. And apparently people were more suspicious of each other here, to the point where general courtesy was ignored.

The man was talking again. "I'm sorry, just to clarify. You want me to let you, a total stranger, into my neighbour's house."

"Yes, but..."

"Without knowing anything about you."

"Yes, but..."

"Richard's never even mentioned you, and with respect, you don't really look like his type." Ouch. Well that hurt. She tried to force herself to remain polite.

"Yes, but with respect to you, you don't really know him do you, other than saying a passing "hello to each other as you put the bins out. And the only reason you have his keys is in case his alarm goes off again." It was the man's turn to look shocked. Clearly people in London didn't talk back after receiving a dressing down, and she had known about the alarm...She took the opportunity his stunned silence presented to continue. "Look, I'm happy to wait on the doorstep while you go in. There is a photo of me on his bedside table, I know there is. Then you'll know I'm not lying."

It was a gamble. She knew there would be no photo on his bedside table. He didn't even know she was coming but it was a risk she was willing to take and if was anything like Richard he wouldn't want to violate another man's privacy. His eyes narrowed at her. The idea going into another man's bedroom was not appealing. "Why don't I just call him..." His hand reached for his phone and she had to work quickly to stop him from placing the call.

"No!" If anything, this made the situation worse, and he looked even more determined to ring Richard. "Please, I flew over here as a surprise." He still wasn't convinced and as a last resort she reached for her purse. "Look I'm with the Saint Marie police." The man had clearly never heard of Saint Marie. She grew even more exasperated. "Just Look!" She thrust her badge in his face and he began to look pacified. "Call my colleagues, please, just don't call Richard."

The badge seemed to do it, the phone went reluctantly back in his pocket. "Stay here." The door closed in her face, reopening a moment later with him holding a set of keys. He glanced out behind her and for the first time seemed to register that it was still raining. He grabbed an umbrella, not bothering to offer her one and led the way, Camille rolling her eyes behind his back.

Cold and wet she had decided to take a shower, privately fantasizing that Richard would come home, surprise her and join her. But on more reflection she realised that he would probably be alarmed at hearing his shower on and would in all liklihood call for back up. The idea of being caught in the shower by an armed response unit was not so appealing. After nearly half an hour of scrubbing she found that the hot water was beginning to falter and she reluctantly got out, drawing a little smiley face on the mirror in the steam offering it up as a silent prayer for her success.

Eschewing the idea of finding somewhere to sleep, she had looked longingly at his bed, perfectly made as always, before deciding against it. Dressing, she had wrapped herself in a rug and settled herself in with a magazine, some wine and crisps she found in his kitchen and waited. And waited. And waited.

It was 7 o'clock and still no sign of him.

The later it got, the more time she had to contemplate what the hell she was doing. She had been too caught up in the excitement of her plans and her ideas for the future that she hadn't really thought them through. And the more she did, the more she began to think that she shouldn't have come. She felt the colour rise in her cheeks when the full weight of her actions suddenly settled themselves in her stomach. It was a huge risk.

She hadn't really been thinking properly when she had found herself at the airport buying a ticket, all thoughts had been of escaping, of finding him, being with him, no matter how far away he was. He would look after her, that much she knew to be true. But she also knew that in all their conversations he'd never once given her a clean indication that he loved her. Or even wanted her. Not since that one message. And the more she thought about that, the more she rapidly came to the conclusion that she should leave. He didn't want her. She knew he didn't. They talked and they laughed, but there was nothing beyond that, was there?

And then there was Humphrey. Poor, sweet, accident prone Humphrey. She would never have come if it hadn't been for him. It had been a knee jerk reaction to something that had been stewing between them for a while, something that made the corners of her mouth turn down in disgust. She had run away. But had she run to the right person? And what did she even hope to achieve by coming to London?

And then, she realised that she didn't care if it achieved anything. She needed him, and if he didn't need her then...she took a deep breath. She didn't want to think about it. It would hurt, that much was obvious, but at least she would know. It would be over.

She wondered how much longer he was going to be when finally she heard the key in the lock. The clock on his desk, which had once been silent, now struck its seconds out loud in time with her heart rate as she sat rooted to the spot wondering what to do. She'd had all this time to prepare and still didn't really know what to do. Should she meet him in the hall or stay where she was and let him come to her? She tried to remember if she'd left anything in the hall. She heard nothing from the other side of the door apart from clothes being shaken and shoes being discarded so she assumed she hadn't.

She heard him on the phone and realised with a rush that he was trying to call her.

_Hi. It's me. I just wanted to..._ he paused. _I er..._He took a breath and composed himself._ I'll try you again later. _

He hung up and she heard him say a rather quiet and dejected, "damn." She suddenly felt guilty that she was intruding on his privacy and wished that she had greeted him immediately.

Pulled her legs up underneath her defensively, she contemplated her next move. To greet or not to greet. It didn't really matter anymore, he would see her soon enough. She was on the verge of standing when she saw that the door knob was already turning and suddenly he was in front of her, tie in one hand, buttons being undone by the other.

It was the type of rain that he had longed for when he was on Saint Marie, prayed for even. And he was fed up with it. Beautiful drizzle giving way to heavy rain and back again, a welcome relief from the heat wave summer they were otherwise having in London. He had spent the week boiled and soaked to the bone in turn and the cold now perforated his clothes and his skin, the wind had tousled his hair and the rain had seeped through his shoes.

He sighed as he opened his door, shaking his umbrella and then opening his mac and doing the same with the leaves of his coat. Hanging both up, he tried to call Camille quickly, no luck. He turned to glance at the mirror hanging over the radiator in his hall. Old. He looked old and grey. Even his face looked grey because of the weather. Looking closer, he raised his hand to his face and moulded the skin under his fingers, manipulating it so that it bagged and smoothed before falling back into place, wrinkles and all. He swore silently under his breath, self loathing coursing through him. Then turned away and began to take stock of how cold he actually was.

Looking down he surmised that his shoes were the main culprits. Wet footprints, muddied the floor beneath him, outlining his tread before disappearing in rivulets to trace their way back to his front door. He kicked them off and pulled at his wet socks disgustedly. He wondered briefly whether to remove the remainder of his clothes in the hall instead of traipsing through the house leaving a wet trail of cold London behind him and was pulling at his shirt tails as he entered his sitting room becoming aware for the first time that he had left a light on.

Resigning himself to an evening writing up paperwork he dumped his briefcase on his desk and rounded the corner, stopping dead in his tracks to find Camille sitting on his sofa, magazine in hand, coffee on the table.

She led with a rather lame, "surprise!"

Somewhere in the silence his brain was able to process the fact that the rain had slackened a little outside but when it came to the woman in front of him he was suddenly and completely unable to function.

Camille was also aware of the silence. That he hadn't yet moved towards her. She tried again. "Is this a nice surprise Richard?"

He realised that she looked almost shy, and he thought for the first time that she might be nervous about an unplanned visit, that she might think he wasn't happy to see her. He forced himself to speak, unintentionally avoiding her question in his rush to formulate a sentence.

"What are you doing here?"

It was her time to be flummoxed. She had been so sure that their reunion would be instantaneous that she hadn't thought to prepare a tactful answer for the reason that she was there. She wasn't really sure what to tell him. Whether to lie.

In the interminable silence she realised that he was still waiting for her answer. _Why hadn't she called him first?_ She said the first thing that came into her head and hoped that it was enough to satisfy his curiosity. "I only got the time off yesterday."

"Why?" No such luck. This was the question she had been dreading. Trust Richard not to have let it go. He pressed again. "Camille?"

"Humphrey wanted me to take a couple of days away from the office."

Her answer still didn't satisfy him. "Why...?"

He was immobile. A figure set in stone, as unreachable 5 feet away from her as he had been when an ocean separated them. She looked embarrassed, awkward and a little ashamed. She felt sick. "I think he's... She saw the look he was giving her and knew that there was no way out of this. "He, um, tried to kiss me." She looked at him and to her relief he looked furious. A chink of hope began to replace the sick feeling in light of the evidence of his anger.

"But it doesn't matter Richard. Honestly. He was drunk and really embarrassed about the whole thing. He said it would be easier for a couple of days if I wasn't in the office, so he could pretend it hadn't happened then get things back to normal. He gave me extra leave." She shrugged and hoped it was enough.

She tried to push him for a reaction. An emotion. Any emotion. "You don't look very happy to see me."

"Camille, you've just been sexually assaulted by a senior officer..."

She felt strangely belittled by him. Sitting whilst he stood, he held a strange power over her. She shifted uncomfortably then stood, in an effort to get closer to him, to fight for him. "And I came to see you. I wanted to see you. I want to be with you. Just because I don't want him doesn't mean that I don't want you...

"I've missed you Richard and..." she took another deep breath, "I want us to work. I _know_ we can make it work. And if we can't then I at least want to try, and I know you wanted to try too. Before...but, I'm so scared you've changed your mind, that you don't want me anymore."

He suddenly remembered that he was allowed to touch her, that she was his and found the courage to move to her, to wrap his arms around her, pulling her in close, breathing her in.

He was barely audible as he kissed her and soothed her. He murmured her name and her confidence returned, deepening their kiss as they manoeuvred their way back towards the sofa, scattering the remainder of the magazines and the empty coffee mug.

She settled on top of him and he realised that they were dangerously close to the point of no return. He managed to wrench himself away. "Camille, wait."

She stilled and looked at him confused. "Why?"

"Well I mean, don't you want to talk some more? We don't have to dive straight in...I don't want this to feel..." he searched for the right word, "contrived."

She huffed her frustration at the irony at him wanting them to talk not being contrived and continued to push him towards the back of the sofa. He was blustering now. "We can't, I mean...I haven't..." He took a deep breath and tried again, tried to stop her. "I wasn't expecting you. I don't have...anything." He gave her a meaningful look and willed her to understand.

She drew him back into a kiss and held something up in her hand, the crinkle of the foil caught his attention briefly before his lips and mouth and tongue found their mark again.

His heart rate soared. "That's very presumptuous."

"mmmmhhhhh..." It was.

"We should go upstairs..."

"mmmmm," she nodded her assent but continued to push him down into the sofa, tugging his belt free, unable to contemplate leaving him even for the briefest of moments in order for them to move upstairs.

"The neighbours..."

She continued to nod but choose to ignore his excuses, putting them down to his usual bluster. She had no intention of stopping now, given that she was sitting in his lap.

Until - "Camille, can you just...wait...stop!"

She pushed away from him, seeing him and understanding what he was telling her for the first time.

"I...I..." She had a horrible sensation of falling, the room seemed to bulge and constrict around her in turn, making her dizzy. Her breath seemed to stick in her throat but she managed to stutter, "I shouldn't have come." She was mortally embarrassed, silently berating herself. She should have listened to her gut, and not tried to see something which so clearly wasn't there.

He didn't want her, she had wasted so much time wanting him and he didn't want her. She looked at the door, assessing how quickly she could get to it and out of the house without coming into contact with him. She didn't care about her bags. She'd hardly brought anything with her anyway. She just needed to escape.

She pushed away from him further, struggled to her feet and was in the hall before his brain could process what was happening. She was leaving. She was here, in his house. And she was leaving. He found his voice again.

"No, please don't go. I'm sorry." She was almost running now in her haste to get away from him so he allowed a little bit of desperation to creep into his voice, knocking in to his coffee table in his rush to get after her. He swore loudly.

"Camille, please!" He had caught her, his hand on her arm. He had no recollection of reaching for her, but it did at least have the benefit of bringing her to a stop.

Everything was perfectly still for a single moment.

"I'm sorry." Then with more conviction. "I'm sorry." Her stance changed, her frozen stride lessened and her body settled in to a position of standing. She looked broken. "I didn't know you were coming. You didn't tell me you were coming. I was just...surprised."

His hand was still on her arm, the only point of contact between them. She shrugged off his excuses, feeling the weight of him on her, his skin against hers. She remembered the last time she had felt his skin, and now could only focus on her feeling of shame, at her tricking her way into his house to surprise him, at her complete and utter failure to seduce him.

A month of pent up melancholy, frustration and bitterness culminated in tears. Angry tears which filled her eyes. She tried desperately to stop them spilling down her face, she didn't want him to see her cry again, wanted some dignity at least.

She tried to hold them back as her heart sank even more at the thought of leaving, of going home. She had hoped that that would change. That she could have had a home with him. That once he had seen her again he wouldn't have been able to keep his hands off her. Instead he had questioned why she had come at all.

He was talking again, "Camille, I'm sorry. Please...," trying to pull her back in to his sitting room, out of the danger area that the hall presented, but she was immovable. But she was wary, she needed something more from him now. Reassurance perhaps, that he didn't think any less of her for her lack of propriety and dignity. Her pride had taken a hammering.

His other hand reached for her free arm and he forced her to look at him. "I'm an idiot." Her eyes didn't meet his. "Look at me." Still nothing. "Look at me!" Success this time. "I'm an idiot. She gave a half hearted attempt at a smile. "And I've missed you too." He let that sink in for her.

She still didn't understand. "Why did you tell me to stop?"

He looked as if he didn't want to tell her, but knew in light of what had just happened that withholding anything would never wash with her. He gave an embarrassed sigh. "I've never really been with a woman who's instigated...that sort of thing..." He took a moment to swallow, to get some saliva back into his mouth. "I've spent so long dreaming that you might...that I might see you..." he tailed off. "I didn't want it to feel like some sordid vivid daydream. I don't want to treat you like that." He prayed that she knew what he was talking about.

She nodded. The idea that he had thought about her like that since he had left, that she hadn't been the only one, put a small smile back on her face. It gave him hope. "But I definitely don't want you to leave". His hands had worked their way to her face and around to the back of her neck, pulling her in to him, whispering how much he had missed her in her ear and peppering her face with kisses, her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, her chin. Nowhere escaped his attention.

He rested his forehead against hers and took a moment to familiarise himself with her again.

Her mumbles turned to a gasp as Richard moved to her neck, his hands already searching for the hem of her t-shirt, breaking away from her momentarily to bring it over her head. He brought his palms to her skin, needing to feel her in his hands but elicited a scream from her instead as she pushed his hands away.

"Cold hands! Cold hands!" He broke away from her laughing wickedly as she laced her fingers through his, trying to slow him down and warm him at the same time. He tried pulling her away from his front door again and found her more receptive this time.

Walking backwards his eyes traced their way down her body and he was delighted to see that his cold hands had had the benefit of puckering her nipples which were now straining at the fabric of her bra. She leant back into him and kissed him slowly, lingeringly, their tongues gently touching, exploring, remembering. She felt a hand on her face, gently pushing her away.

"Are you sure this is what you want? Am I what you want?" He cursed his brain and upbringing that made it imperative to explain this to her before they made love instead of after. His body needed her too much. "Camille, I can't half commit to this. It's going to take a lot of effort to keep us together. And we won't have a lot of time. Not to begin with."

"I know." He saw that she was determined, that her mind was made up. There seemed to be nothing else to say on the subject so she said, "I've missed you."

He inhaled sharply scarcely daring to believe that the woman in front of him with her arms resolutely wrapped around him had flown six thousand miles to see him purely because she missed him.

She felt his hands on her thighs and braced herself for the chill of his fingers against her stomach, her skin goosing in preparation, but it never came. All she felt was a gentle warmth and she felt her skin bloom, but for an entirely different reason.

His hands around her waist seemed to ignite something for both of them and their kiss deepened still further, playful and serious in turn, slow and languorous then nipping and biting, his hot breath in her mouth over her skin, in her ear. Her hands stumbling over his shirt buttons in her rush to work her way down until she found herself at his waistband, pawing at him. The memory of their first time together suddenly surfaced in his memory and he hardened still further against her clumsy attempts at his fly.

And suddenly it was open and she was pushing her hand inside to free him, relishing the feel of having him in her hand again, guiding him out towards her, hardly caring about her haste until:

"Ow, Christ, go easy!" They were rushed gasps but they weren't of pleasure. She paused unable to understand why he was suddenly in pain. She looked down and realised that in her haste her grip and the angle were not ones conducive to pleasure. She giggled her apology and kissing him, pushed him gently back on to the sofa, freeing him from his trousers at the same time and removing her own at an impressive speed, standing on the material in order to tug her own legs clear. She looked down to find him smirking at her, clearly amused at her rush and the fact that she had not divested him of his underwear. But she was back in his arms too quickly to care, revelling in their closeness, their heat and their excitement as she pushed him on to his back.

She didn't tease. Not this time. She needed him too much. Rolling her hips deep on to him she sat upright her face tilted upwards. She afforded him the perfect view. Back arched, her body rose above him. His inability to see her face was strangely erotic too, the unknown woman, and he found himself wishing for her to turn back towards him if only for a glimpse, to pull him back from this dream like state into reality again. His hands seemed to channel his frustration as he held on to her tightly, terrified that she might suddenly change her mind and leave him as he had left her.

How she had ever thought that they would have been unable to reproduce the passion of their first time together was now inconceivable. Every nerve ending was on fire as she broke away from his lips and upped their tempo to accommodate her own need, not thinking that he might need something different. She found Richard try and take control back from her in order to slow down and at first she resisted him, all thoughts of any contraception buried by her need as he awkwardly shifted himself back up, trying to change them for a position more conducive to endurance rather than speed. For a moment they fought, lovers locked in a fierce embrace that only heightened their passion.

There was only so much that the cushions could take.

They gave way underneath them, unbalancing them both and tipping them on to the floor in a heap. He came to rest on top of her a little shocked.

"You alright?"

She nodded and her giggles complemented his grin when she saw that he had achieved what he had wanted to all along. Pinning her down she remembered how surprised she had been by his strength the first time, pushing then picking her up against the wall of her home, legs wrapped around him as he barely registered her weight in his need to get her to bed.

He released her for a moment propping himself up on his side to take care of his boxers and the contraception issue that she had so wilfully neglected and she ran an appreciative eye over his skin following the contours of his muscles, wondering silently if he had been exercising more since his return. His desperation added a sense of urgency to the task in hand but evidently it wasn't fast enough. She huffed her impatience at him only to be met with an equally frustrated look that told her he was going as fast as he could.

And suddenly he was pushing back inside her again as her laughter at his ineptitude morphed in to a gasp then a moan. Circling her with his arms she wondered if she felt more protected this time because it meant more to them. She bucked herself up into him a move designed to get him to return the favour, wondering why he refused to begin, only to be told that he needed a moment. She laughed, loving his honesty and his overwhelming need to please her.

Questioning her with that lopsided smile of his he began to move.

The frustrations and longing over a two month separation coupled with his break ensured that she reached her plane before he did. He held her there teetering on the edge before a series of cries meant that he could hold out no longer. Racing towards the end, their lovemaking culminated in a frenzy of passion and outpouring of emotions. It was too much for both of them as they bucked together one last time, her fingernails clawing at his back, then collapsed exhausted and spent.

Heavy breathing subsided while skin prickled with heat returned to normal and still they held each other, Richard not daring to let her go in case she vanished and Camille terrified that at any minute her facade would slip and she might cry.

He felt her nails graze his back, and catch on his skin. Back and forth they went, up and down, bringing him gently back to earth. He tried to shake off her hand with a casual shrug of his shoulder to no avail.

"Hey!" It was a gentle scolding but it caught her attention. The hand stopped.

Never knowing the next step with Camille was and had always been part of their relationship. As he lay there he tried desperately to think of some way to break the silence that now engulfed them both. He wanted so much to talk about the future but had no way of starting the conversation that she wouldn't think was unromantic. He tried to deflect his emotions with a joke.

"You know, if that's the welcome I get when I come home then you can break into my house as often as you like.

If she realised what he was doing then she didn't try and unmask him. She was hiding as much as he was but the difference now was that they had time.

"I didn't break in." He raised an eyebrow. "Stephen let me in."

"Stephen?"

"Your neighbour."

He huffed. "Well that would explain the curtain twitching I received when I came home this evening. How on earth did you get him to let you in?"

She gave him a knowing look and he felt a sudden surge of possessiveness even as he knew that that particular flirtation wouldn't have got her anywhere with him. "He took a lot of persuading. You might not like him but he's trustworthy."

Richard mulled that particular thought over. "I have a feeling that if I wasn't in the police he wouldn't be so trustworthy..."

She conceded his point. "He seemed to have never heard of me." She pouted. "Don't you talk about me Richard?"

"I've been doing my level best in between your very provocative phone calls to try and move on from you. Your siren song has proved irresistible." She looked smug and he went back to indulging himself with the feeling of her skin under his fingers. "At any rate I think you've probably proved your existence."

"What's that meant to mean?"

He bit his lip in amusement. "You're quite loud Camille..."

She looked a little chastened but still tried to fight her corner. "You're lucky you got any at all considering that photo over there." She indicated one of his bookshelves and he followed her gaze to a plain wooden frame where Dwayne and Fidel were smiling at the camera. Another figure was conspicuously absent by the extra arm that was draped around the twosome. The photo had clearly been cropped.

"Did you hate me very much?"

There was a decidedly pregnant pause and in an effort to starve off the beginning of her melancholy he leant over her to retrieve his cast off jacket, rummaging around in his pocket before placing his wallet on her sternum. Running a single finger to the end of her breast bone in thought he settled himself next to her again pulling the blanket from the back of the sofa over them. She shot him a questioning look then understood and placed her hand over it, her fingers in turn trailing back and forth over the tooled grain of the leather, reluctant to look inside.

"Don't you want to see?" She shook her head and pressed herself closer, smiling into his chest, the original at last usurping the place of the copy.


	6. Chapter 6

She had been taken aback by the noise of the police station. She remembered the chaos and general bustle from her time in Paris but had gotten used to their quiet camaraderie that they had shared on their island. If she had felt a little self conscious upon entering the foyer then it had only increased when several of the officers had stopped their conversation to watch her progress to the main desk.

One in particular had been eying her up. She knew the type: leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, an arrogant sneer on his face. She tried to convey her disgust before turning to the desk but to no avail. The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she felt him move closer, his eyes boring in to the back of her. She wished that this was any other station so that she could put him in his place but didn't want to embarrass Richard, they were bound to find out who she was sooner or later.

A friendly constable behind the desk came to her rescue, polite amusement laced her voice as she saw her predicament. "Can I help?"

She gave an apologetic smile and handed an envelope over the desk. I was wondering if I could leave this for someone. The WPC looked at the name on the envelope and shrugged. "Sure." Camille's phone buzzed and she mumbled an apology before stepping out of the way a little.

_In the park, meet me there? 5 minute walk._

She was back in front of the desk. "Sorry. I need to get to the park?" She noticed with some annoyance that the man who was watching her had slid closer. She thought he had also now been joined by a colleague. He was standing a little further away though, as if he was embarrassed by his friend's behaviour . She counselled herself to patience and tried to concentrate on the directions now being given to her.

Halfway through the man, who was now so close to her that she could smell his cheap aftershave, interrupted. He wore his lack of merit with bravado, his arrogance denoting the fact that he was a constable, too stupid to realise that it would do him no favours. He spoke with conceit in an accent that Camille didn't recognise but assumed to be London. She tried to imagine Richard as a constable, so different in every way to the man standing in front of her.

"If you're going to the park, I can show you. We were heading that way anyway." He indicated to his colleague who, to give him some credit, seemed a little more embarrassed at the obvious chat up line. Camille caught the eye of the interrupted WPC in front of her who returned a sympathetic look.

"That's very kind, thank you." The man stood aside to let Camille pass and she did so with some reluctance knowing full well that he was openly checking her out. His colleague redeemed himself yet again by getting the door for her.

The walk was as Richard had said - 5 minutes. Next to a main road, which thankfully made polite conversation almost impossible. All they had managed to get out of her was that she was meeting someone. The more he tried to mine information, the more she relished him actually finding out who she was meeting. The more he spoke the more she found him to be disingenuous and disagreeable. He reminded her strongly of Doug Anderson, an entitled man child and her pace quickened as a way of getting rid of him. It didn't put him off as his step matched hers. She was grateful at least that she had changed her shoes to something more appropriate. Heels would have made his leering so much harder to bear, harder to have ignored.

He clearly thought that she was meeting a female friend. "You know, you could join us, if you liked." He was walking stomach first, leaning back in to it, his legs too wide apart, assuming that this made his look more masculine. It didn't. Camille thought he looked ridiculous, like a preening dancing pony. She didn't respond. He didn't seem to notice that she wasn't interested. "If you're new to the area, we can show you around, perhaps take you out for a couple of drinks. There are some great bars around here..."

Camille thought she'd never been so relieved to see the gates to a park in her life. Her patience was almost at an end and her feminist streak was threatening to rear its ugly head as the man practically devoured her with his eyes. Her pace quickened still further, eyes roaming the green space.

"Hmm? Oh no, that's fine, I've got plans for the weekend and then I leave, so..." She was trying to let him down gently, but despite an almost complete lack of interest from his shy colleague he refused to let her go that easily.

And then she could see him. And he was reading. She almost stopped to admire the picture of serenity that he created as she wished for the umpteenth time that she was on her own so that she could save the image for when she returned home; along with the fact that his hair stands on end when he wakes and the fact that he tastes of marmite in the mornings, something she had very recently discovered she found abhorrent. She smiled at the memories, and at the fact that he had insisted on brushing his teeth thoroughly in order that he could kiss her again.

He caught her gaze, misinterpreting it as an interest in the bench rather than the occupant. "Oh him. Don't worry about him. Easily moved." She gave him a questioning look. "Won't mind giving us the bench, probably won't even notice you. Hasn't so much as looked at a woman since he got here." He raised his eyebrows, "not sure he's interested, if you know what I mean..."

He hadn't bothered to keep his voice down and they were almost on top of the bench, and not for the first time Camille wondered how Richard had been able to work with him without saying anything.

"Sir..."

"Jones..?" Richard seemed surprise to be addressed by a junior member of the force, until he realised that Camille was also standing in front of him. He understood immediately as his eyes took in her annoyance and a small smile flicked the corner of his mouth, its subtle meaning lost on all except her.

"Would you mind if we joined you on the bench sir?" Jones flicked his eyes over to Camille and she saw his jaw harden imperceptibly, but if he was annoyed by his predatory nature towards her he didn't say anything. He stood and a small arrogant smile graced Jones' face, presumably pleased that it had taken minimal effort to make a senior officer do his bidding.

"You can _have_ the bench if you want it Jones."

This was almost too much for him, and he flashed a quick triumphant look at Camille, as if to say _told you so_. "Yes sir, that would be really kind." There was a faint hint of patronisation to his tone almost as if he was doing his superior a favour by deigning to talk to him.

"Oh not at all. I mean," he looked at Camille, "providing you don't want it to yourself Sergeant Bordey?"

Smugness turned to nervousness as he realised that the woman he had been trying to chat up was also a superior. Richard watched as he mentally ran through his conversation with her, he could practically see the cogs turning inside his head. Camille took little time to relish this small victory as she shook her head.

Richard addressed his two younger colleagues. "Looks like its all yours then." Thinking that he still had a chance with her, Jones shot him a look of glory that turned to confusion as he watched Camille take his boss' hand. She didn't bother to keep her voice down as they walked off.

"So, according to that constable, you're not interested in women..."

"Yes, didn't you know? Haven't so much as looked at another woman since I got here..." he took delight in quoting his constable word for word. "Rumour has it that I'm gay..." She giggled and he bit back a grin. They walked a little further before he turned to her. "Are they looking?"

She surreptitiously turned her head. "Yup. Jones has his phone out. I think he's trying to get a picture."

"That wouldn't surprise me, I have a feeling that my bachelor status is now forever ruined." His arm came up around his shoulders as he guided her to a clear space under a tree.

* * *

><p>They had tried to keep their lunch private, Camille had insisted on sitting on the grass in the relative shade of a tree despite Richard's whinging, but it seemed that word had gotten out about Inspector Poole's date. The park had a slightly larger police presence than it usually did.<p>

"Is it really so bizarre that you might be interested in me." She raised an eyebrow which seemed to quell his inquisitiveness. "Don't answer that." Camille's response had been to sit closer, lean on him and steal kisses when he wasn't looking, revelling in the fact that he was becoming more and more flustered by her attention.

"Are you going to miss it?"

"Hmmm?"

"Your bachelor status?"

"Oh absolutely." He'd said it so quickly that she had missed his sarcasm. "There's something about being a single man in your 40s that just seems to have the ladies tripping over themselves to be with you..." She became contemplative and he was worried that she had taken his flippancy seriously. "Is everything alright?"

She nodded, "it's just taken me a long time to tune in to your sense of humour."

He became slightly subdued, "sorry."

"Don't be. I'd much rather be with you than tweedle dumb and tweedle dee over there. At least you respect me."

He looked around him quickly to make sure that no one was in ear shot. "I didn't respect you very much last night."

She gave him a look laced with provocation, "no you didn't." He had the good grace to look away in embarrassment, "but that's not necessarily a bad thing." She watched as a small smile bloomed on his face and stole another kiss, but this time he didn't flinch or try to shift away. Instead he took her chin in his thumb and first finger and drew her in to him for a lingering kiss. They heard a cheer relatively close to them and Richard pulled away immediately, horror turning to embarrassment then acknowledgement.

"I should go..."

She pouted. "You could always skive ..."

"I'd almost certainly get away with it too given the lack of witnesses to our date..." he indicated the numerous police officers milling around them then caught the expression on her face. "What?"

"It's our first date."

"mmm,"

She shrugged. "I'd forgotten that we've never had a date."

He was already on his feet, brushing down his trousers as he held out his hand to help her up. "Should I take you out to dinner tonight?"

She shook her head as she too clambered to her feet, her hands resting lightly in his shoulders, her thumbs brushing at some invisible mark. "No, I'd rather have you at home."

He studied her for a moment then indicated with his head that they needed to get back. She fell in with his stride, her hand seeking out his, her fingers lacing themselves through his own.

"Camille..."

"Just until we get closer." He accepted her need for reassurance, quietly thrilled by the fact that she was happy to associate herself with him so publically. He didn't think the novelty of her skin against his would ever wear thin but still rubbed his thumb against hers gently, further reinforcing their unity, in his mind at least and relishing the creases in his skin he could feel under his own.

"Does that mean you're going to cook for me?"

"I might..." she realised that he might be expecting a little too much. "You know, pasta and sauce is the extent of my limited knowledge."

"I find that hard to believe, given the fact that you grew up over a restaurant."

Her tone was playful. "It's more of a bar really...anyway, why do you think I ordered takeaway last night?"

He almost told her in no uncertain terms _exactly_ why he thought they ordered takeaway, then thought better of it. Instead he settled for a less explicit, "I didn't think either of us were in the mood for cooking last night."

"And I was hoping that neither of us would be in the mood for cooking tonight either..."

They had left the park and were at the main road, the noise of the traffic giving Richard a welcome break from the conversation as they walked on in silence, leaving him trying desperately to clear his head before he arrived back at work. He squeezed her hand gently to let her know that he wasn't taking the opportunity to ignore her on purpose, then released it. She understood that he would rather say goodbye while they were still a little away from the station and slowed, letting another man in a suit pass them in the process. He nodded quickly at Richard.

"Inspector."

"Sir." The man took in everything in one assessing glance. His eyebrows rose quickly in the briefest of acknowledgements to their relationship, then he was gone.

Richard tried to ignore him, but he was clearly torn between wanting to spend more time with her and being eager to get back to work. The park had been emptying steadily and he was already one of the last to return. She guessed that his boss had also just beaten him back into the building.

"So I'll see you tonight, slippers by the fire, dinner on the table?"

"Is that what you really want?"

He smiled enigmatically, kissed her quickly and said more firmly, "I'll see you later." The details he decided were best left to her.

* * *

><p>Walking into the station he was stopped at the desk by the WPC.<p>

"Sir?" he raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement. "This was left for you." His raised eyebrows turned into a frown so she continued, "just before lunch..." She trailed off when she saw that he clearly had no idea what she was talking about and handed him an envelope which he took with some confusion when he saw Camille's writing. _Why hadn't she given it to him herself?_ He ripped it open and out fell a credit card. He held back a smile and pulled out his phone.

She picked up with a laugh as he said, "That, Camille is theft and if you've used it, fraud." She laughed again as he contemplated whether to be angry or grateful, given that it meant that he was in a fully fledged relationship. "When did you even take it?"

"You said I should enjoy myself..."

"I said..." He held his tongue, and bit the inside of his lip deciding to ignore the fact that she had chosen to do it with his credit card and cut to the chase. "And the pin?"

She exhaled derisively, "please, like that was the difficult part." His gratitude was beginning to turn to worry.

"Are you at least going to tell me if I have any money left in my account?"

"Enough for you to take me to dinner."

"I thought we weren't going out to dinner?" He was met with an amused silence and tried very hard to be stern with her. "Ok, so how about telling me what you've spent my hard earned wage on?"

"I can't hear you...you're cutting out. Richard?" He knew she was lying, he could hear the traffic quite plainly.

"Camille? Camille!"

"Richard? No I can't hear you. I'm hanging up now..."

He huffed his annoyance, raising his eyes to the ceiling then suddenly realised that he was close enough for the WPC to have heard everything he had been saying. He also knew that she would have seen what was in the envelope. He turned to her, pleadingly.

"Any chance when I leave, you'll keep this to yourself?" She tried very hard to look innocent and he knew he was doomed. He shook his head and sighed, knowing that it was fruitless to have even asked. "Of course you won't."

He walked quickly down the corridor towards the stairs, turning briefly back as he reached the bottom step in time to see her reach for her phone.

* * *

><p>The man had indeed been Richard's boss. And although he had been surprised to see Richard in such an intimate situation outside the station he had also been pleased for him. The man spent too much time at work in his opinion. A damn fine officer but in need of a bit of relaxation. He revised his last thought: a lot of relaxation. He was too uptight. The thought jogged another memory for him and he remembered a letter on his desk. Perhaps it was time to action it. He had more than proved himself of being capable after all...His feet changed direction, taking him to the bullpen where Richard's team were based.<p>

He noted, not for the first time, during his short walk that his shoes (with the possible exception of Poole's) were the only ones in the entire building not to make a noise on the floor beneath him. He despised rubber soles, there was something so modern, so unprofessional about them. There had been less of them when he had first started, he winced at the memory of hearing shoes squeaking in the morgue (of all places) for the first time as a younger officer. It was such an indelicate sound, a cheap sound, cutting through the grief of the parents he had accompanied there; leaving an ugly vacuum in the air after it had vanished, unable to be filled by condolences. It was a noise designed purposefully to annoy, like nails on a blackboard. And now the station was full of them. Cheap and unpolished shoes. Shoes with flat soles. Shoes than ruined your knees, your ankles and your arches. He wondered when and how they had become the norm, and why the general public tolerated them.

Perhaps that was he went against the grain of his colleagues and liked Poole so much. It was true that they showed more indifference rather than open dislike, but in Poole he saw a lot of the man he could have turned into if he hadn't married early and had originally pitied him. He was traditional. Did things by the book, even though it hadn't made him overly popular. It could have been so easy for him to have made the same mistakes. He now saw that the man wasn't a loner. He was just deeply private.

There was a steady hum from the different offices he passed, voices, printers, papers being shuffled. But he noted, a little annoyed that there was one voice that was becoming increasingly loud. He set his jaw. He knew exactly who it was. He also knew he wasn't the only person who found him insolent. He was interested to see how Poole's team dealt with him though. He stood by the door and watched.

* * *

><p>Jones was holding court as usual, men hanging off his every word because they lacked the individuality or intelligence to do otherwise. "I'm not kidding, fittest bird I've ever seen and Poole walks off with her. How the hell did that happen?" He directed the question to no one in particular, but looked around for reassurance and saw several other constables nod their heads. He was almost satisfied. It was pretty easy to get them on side but he needed another opinion. He turned to the nearest WPC on their team.<p>

"Did you see her, Lauren?"

She was politely indifferent. "No."

"Pity. Would've been good to get your opinion."

"On what?"

"Well there's obviously something wrong with her. Mentally, I mean."

She put down the paperwork that she was reading through. "What _is_ your problem with him?"

"I don't have a problem."

She laughed openly. "You clearly do, which is weird because since he joined us, our closure rate has almost doubled and we're actually starting to get some respect around here." She levelled with him and asked perfectly seriously, "are you intimidated?"

He scoffed. "I'm not intimidated by Poole..."

"_Inspector _Poole." She corrected, he didn't look particularly bothered by the correction.

"I just don't understand what a girl like that's, doing with a guy like him."

She couldn't believe what she was seeing in front of her and almost couldn't be bothered to put him in his place. But there was something about that smug gloating look on his face that she couldn't let go. She knew his type, had made mistakes with his type before and wasn't about to sit idly by and watch him attempt to ruin her bosses reputation and the reputation of a woman she'd never even met.

"You don't get women do you Nathan? I mean, you think you do, but you don't really. I'm guessing it's why you're a serial womaniser. Not because you enjoy it, but because you can't get one to stay. I'm also guessing it's why you place so much emphasis on the number of women that you bed." He looked uncomfortable.

"So I'll tell you what she probably sees in him. She probably likes the fact that he's a quiet, reserved, respectful and intelligent man, instead of a brash, boorish, arrogant arsehole like you." She shrugged her opinion as she delivered her coup de gras.

There was an audible exhale of breath from the rest of the team and one of the women gave her a catcall of support, she looked around to see where it had come from to see another woman brushing off her shoulder and winked at her.

Sensing a lost fight Jones was gathering up his confidence and his cronies muttering something about women being brutal when it was their time of the month.

"Great come back Jonesey!" She called after him.

She turned around to find Wicken watching her and realised too late that she might have pushed too far. "Sorry sir."

"Don't be. I'm impressed you can hold your own." He studied her for a moment, trying to debate whether in the future he should put her up for a promotion or not. He decided to keep his eye on her. "I would ask if Inspector Poole was back from lunch, but I assume not?"

"No, sir."

"Tell him to see me when he's back will you?"

"Of course sir."

* * *

><p>James Wicken looked up at the knock on his door.<p>

"Come in."

"You wanted to see me Sir."

"Yes, yes I did," He indicated the chair in front of him, "sit down." Richard took the seat a little warily, anxious that this might be a reminder that work should be separated from personal life. He didn't think a quick kiss outside the station counted anyway. He was pretty sure that Wicken had already been in the building when he had kissed Camille anyway.

Trying to occupy himself with thoughts outside of being fired, he took a look around the office he had been in so rarely.

The whole room smelled faintly of bleach. He knew that some would have called it bland, too regimented, but to his mind it was just well ordered. The desk was almost totally clear, which he approved of. The in tray empty, the out tray full, ready to be taken away and filed. There was no pending tray. He himself hated pending trays, you either did a job or you didn't. There was one individual photo of what Richard could only assume to be his wife and another of some children (again, probably his) staring down at him from the shelves where the latest annual reports were stacked in order. There was no sofa. Perhaps Wicken didn't want to encourage people to get comfortable. They might stay longer than intended. There were no frivolities.

The ticking of the clock reminded him that he had absolutely no idea why he was in this neat yet slightly sterile office, but that perhaps he was about to find out. His eyes snapped back to his superiors and he realised to his annoyance that Wicken had been watching him with vague amusement.

"How are you settling in Inspector?" Richard frowned, trying to work out where this was going. "Good team?"

"Yes, thank you sir. A couple were a little rough around the edges, but given time I think we'll become a well oiled machine. We can always improve."

"Improve on the double closure rate you've achieved already?"

Richard wasn't quite sure how to answer. Wicken let him suffer momentarily. "You're probably wondering why I've asked you here." Not letting him answer, he opened his top draw and removed a letter. Casting his eyes over it he then handed it to Richard letting him read it in silence, watching him as his frown deepened. He got the distinct impression that Inspector Poole wasn't happy.

"Congratulations Inspector."

Richard looked met Wicken's eyes. "This is pending your approval Sir?"

"Yes, which I've just granted. You're now DCI Poole." Richard sat in silence. "It is usual on these occasions to say thank you..."

Richard was stunned. "Sorry sir, thank you."

"But..."

"But nothing, Sir. It's very...exciting." He sounded anything but excited.

Wicken sighed, it was time to play the friend. "Might this have anything to do with the woman I saw you with outside Richard..?" He left the end of the sentence open in the hope that he would Richard might elaborate a little but all he received was a momentarily shocked look in regard to the use of his Christian name. "Might I also hazard a guess that had I not called you into my office you would have visited HR at some point either today or tomorrow?"

Richard shifted uncomfortably in his chair. _How the hell did the man know so much?_

Wicken smiled. "May I offer you some advice?" Richard nodded, there wasn't really any way that he could say no. "Take the promotion. Regardless of what comes next." _That at least was sound advice, _thought Richard."Then go home." Richard was still nodding so he clarified. "Take the day off." Richard now looked horrified. "Take a couple of days off. Think about it and let me know. I don't want to lose you."

"Sir I can't take a couple of..."

"Do you have any cases at the moment?"

"Yes, several..."

"Any that can't be handled by your team?"

"But Sir, the paperwork..."

"Take it home. Spend some time with..."

Richard took the hint this time. "Camille."

"Camille." He nodded his understanding.

Richard had another thought. "Am I being reprimanded for something Sir?"

Against his better judgement Wicken laughed. "No Inspector. Contrary to popular belief I'm not a tyrant. The welfare of my officers is of great importance to me. And if I remember correctly you have taken on a lot of overtime recently. HR have already alerted me to the fact that you need to take some of the days off that you have accumulated. I'm telling you to go home and take them now."

"And there's nothing I can say on the subject?"

"No inspector. There isn't." Richard, he was beginning to realise had clearly never missed a day's work in his life, unless it was life threatening.

Resigned, Richard stood. "Thank you Sir."


	7. Chapter 7

**An antidote to the preposterousness of Series 4 (yes, I said preposterousness).**

Turning the key in the lock he called out a greeting and was surprised to hear no response. He hadn't called to say he was coming homing so what did he expect? It was a beautiful day and she had said that she wanted to have a look around. Sighing, put his keys on the shelf in his hall, under the mirror and moved to his desk. Shrugging off his jacket he hung it on the back of the chair and put his briefcase next to the blotter. Looking around he saw some of the changes that the last 24 hours had had on his house. Order no longer took precedence. Evidence of Camille's existence lay on every surface. The empty coffee mug from the morning, a pair of shoes strewn by the door (not placed neatly side by side as he would have done), a thin scarf draped over the arm of the sofa, some tubes of makeup on the mantle under the mirror. For the first time he realised that he had no inclination to clear it up. It proved so resolutely that she wanted to stay, that her life was with his.

_Careful, _he thought, _she's only here for two more days._ _Don't get ahead of yourself._

But where he now didn't care about the mess, he did care about the blandness of it all. _How had he not seen it before?_ Everything was so dull, no eye numbingly boring in white and cream. He closed his eyes and tried to picture his sitting room, individual pieces of furniture, pictures, colours. Items swan in and out of focus but he failed to settle on anything in particular outside of his books. The books injected colour, feeling and personality into the room. The only possessions that spoke of his character. Everything else was instantly forgettable. _Just like me_, he thought sourly.

Before, it was all he had wanted to escape back to, the familiarity of home, the comfort of normality, of paving stones under his feet. But once those first weeks of work had passed and he had settled into routine he found himself longing for people. For companionship, for camaraderie, for friends. It had been why he had reached out to old acquaintances, forced those God awful pub drinks on himself. He had been lonely. He wondered again what Camille saw in him.

Deciding on a cup of tea he made his way into the kitchen, stopping at the door to marvel at yet more mess. Cupboard doors had been left open, a set of scales were on the side and an assortment of ingredients lay scattered on the surfaces. Clearly Camille had been trying to cook.

He called for her again, perhaps she wasn't outside. She wouldn't have left all this mess on the sides surely? Still no answer. Flicking on the switch of the kettle he started to wonder where she was. Perhaps she was in the bathroom. He didn't think she would answer him if she was there? Nodding his assent to his thoughts, he was surprised to hear the front door slam shut and Camille's voice filter through to the kitchen.

"No Maman, I'm fine. I'm back in a couple of days." She was clearly struggling to carry something judging by the pattern of her syntax and footfall. Richard made a dive out of kitchen to help which resulted in Camille screaming and dropping one of the bags with a smash. She glared at him before realising her mother was still on the phone.

"No Maman, I'm fine, I just got a shock." She paused allowing her mother time for a reply. "I'll call you later ok?...I know...Love you too."

Richard looked sheepish. "Sorry."

She didn't say anything, too relieved that he wasn't actually a burglar, and he retreated back into the kitchen to get a cloth, dustpan and brush. Returning, she picked the bag up containing the mess within the plastic. He gave the floor a cursory wipe, seeing that there was no need for anything else then followed her into the kitchen standing behind her as she surveyed the mess she had left behind. She made a quick decision to put the bag in the sink (already full of her morning's breakfast detritus). The sound of broken glass clinked out amongst the china, signalling her already ruined attempt at dinner.

He stood watching her, studying her as he had been unable to do in the park. The stickiness of the air ensured that her thin dress clung to her, becoming tauter still as she leant over the sink, and he felt the beginnings of possessiveness stir within him at so many of his colleagues seeing her as he saw her now.

His eyes trailed from her shoulder to her fingers then up again, taking in the slim musculature of her upper arms, her smooth forearms and the thin bangle she wore around her wrist, highlighting the delicacy and strength of her all at once.

He could see the outline of her bra caught between the material and her back and for the first time didn't begrudge it as he usually did when he saw it on other women, because he found it sexy, knew that if he wanted to he could be the one to take it off her, that he was the one allowed to take it off her. His eyes followed the line of her spine, from her neck, past her shoulder blades. He cast an appreciative eye over her lower back and down still further. He lingered, then felt a flush of embarrassment followed by guilt at treating her in exactly the same way that every other man had treated her that afternoon. At wanting to own her.

But he didn't feel guilty enough to stop.

She could feel him behind her, assumed that he was assessing the mess, and for the first time felt guilt at the way he had come back to his house. "In my defence all this would have been cleared up by this evening."

"Oh?" He had moved behind her.

"So I'm not sorry it's messy.

"No." He dropped a kiss on her neck.

"And it's your fault I dropped dinner."

"Ok." Another kiss.

She seemed to think he was mocking her, thought she could feel his smile against her skin. "It's not funny."

"I didn't say it was."

"You could stop smiling then." His response was to smile more and flick one of the straps off her shoulder, replacing it with another kiss. Clearing up, he decided, could wait.

Skiving, Richard mulled, was clearing something he had been missing out on. In this particular moment, he ceased to begrudge all of the times his colleagues had left him to cover for them. He couldn't imagine why he hadn't done the same. A small voice tried to tell him that this wasn't really skiving, that he had his bosses permission to be away from the office, but he waved it away, too content to listen or to care.

A promotion, a day off and a beautiful woman in bed with him. _Was this his life?_

This sort of thing never happened to him. It happened in dreams. Only, before he'd met Camille those dreams hadn't actually been particularly good. A sort of faceless contract between two people, sometimes involving him, sometimes not featuring him at all. It actually seemed pretty sexless looking back on it. Sexless and boring.

Then Camille had changed all that, and the three months in London on his own had created some of the most vivid and memorable fantasies that he'd had since his teenage years. The type of fantasies that made his face flush on the tube when he let his mind wander off, that made him check other passenger's reactions for signs of embarrassment at his behaviour and that made him make sure that he still had control of his body (heaven forbid he should ever lose that).

If he was honest then he wasn't certain that this _wasn't_ a dream. The reality surpassed even the fantasy. She was perfect. Everything that he had remembered and imagined and more. And...he stopped. She was perfect.

Well, that didn't happen. That never happened.

She felt him stiffen next to her and managed to stir herself enough to try and sooth him. "What is it?"

His mind was still going through the evidence. She wouldn't. Would she? Camille sensed that he was no longer in the same euphoric state that he had been in 30 seconds ago. "Richard? Is everything ok?" She was fully awake now.

"Yes. No." He was clearly having difficulty making his mind up. "Yes, no, its fine."

"Richard...?"

"I mean you had a good time didn't you?"

"A good time? When you were out? Yes, I did some shopping, you know that."

"No, I mean, you know, a good time...now..."

She laughed. She knew she shouldn't have from the moment it left her mouth but it had happened so quickly that she couldn't stop it. "Are you asking me if I came Richard?"

He began to bluster. "No, no of course not." He seemed to realise what he'd just done, "its fine. Honestly."

It was Camille's turn to become embarrassed. "I thought it was obvious?" She suddenly understood and her amusement turned into disbelief. "You thought I was faking?" She said it again without the question, as an accusation and a statement. "You thought I was faking."

It was becoming increasingly clear to Richard that he had probably been wrong to bring it up. She hadn't changed since that first time on Saint Marie. But, that was the point, she hadn't changed from that first time. Shouldn't she be sick of him by now? He found himself becoming lost trying to work out the female psyche.

"You think I'd fly halfway around the world so that I could fake an orgasm with you?"

He was becoming defensive and snorted his derision at her question. "No, obviously not! Look can we just forget I said anything. We really don't need to talk about this."

"Oh, I think we do. After all, you brought it up." She couldn't resist a little teasing and had rolled on to her front, propping herself up on to her arms so that she could look him straight in the face. At any other time he would have been grateful for the view it afforded him but at the moment he wanted to look anywhere else other than at her. "So..." Her question brought his eyes back to hers, they were full of humour. "What makes you think I was faking?" He shot her a look a severe look of unease and didn't answer. He should have trusted himself more. He wasn't that bad with women, at least he hadn't thought he was that bad. And if she was faking then surely she wouldn't want to be with him as often as she had been in the last 24 hours. He swallowed and shrugged but she didn't let him off that easily. She put on an air of innocence. "Was I too loud?" He was now studiously ignoring her. "Or perhaps I was moving too much...? No?"

"This isn't funny Camille. What are you doing?" She was climbing on top of him.

"I was going to show you the difference between a real one and a fake one..."

"Oh for God's sake..." He broke off as she dissolved into giggles, he had no choice but to reluctantly join in. He rolled her on to her back and kissed her.

She became contemplative as she ran a hand through his hair. "Do you honestly think I would lie to you about something like that?" His look said it all and she waited knowing that with Richard all he needed was time.

"Its' just...too perfect. I thought..." He shrugged.

She was smiling at him again. "You know, most women don't shout out as many instructions if they're faking."

"I did wonder about that..."

She stifled a giggle and apologised. "Sorry...is it weird?"

"No, I quite like it."

"Oh really?"

"Mmmmm. Reminds me who's boss." She bunched her fist and hit him playfully on the shoulder a he huffed his amusement into her neck. He was already moving his kisses further south, his lips caressing the taut skin over her collarbone, when she had another thought.

"What are you doing here?"

He lifted his head vaguely confused by her question, mishearing her, thinking that his intentions had been perfectly obvious. "Um, you said before that you liked it...I was just..." He indicated a finger at her body to prove his point. "I can stop if you like?"

"No!" Her tone implied that he was an idiot. "What are you doing back here? Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Seriously – it's taken you an hour to work out that I shouldn't be at home...?" He widened his eyes and giving her a look, reminding her teasingly that perhaps her detective skills had been somewhat compromised. She shot him back a look that told him she had been a little preoccupied from the moment she had come into the house. "Wicken sent me home." Camille, thinking that he had been reprimanded for something was, for once, too stunned to talk. It was for the best, he thought. He knew that once she worked herself up to it, she'd be shouting at the bureaucracy of the police when it came to their understanding of relationships for the next half hour. He'd never have got the rest of his story out if that happened so he ploughed on quickly, shushing her first reaction then summarising as best he could. "It's not like that. He gave me a promotion." She still looked speechless but the anger had gone. She was now looking at him in disbelief.

"You know," she said jokingly, "that is the worst lie I've ever heard you say." His face fell, and she realised that he might have been telling the truth after all. "That's not a lie? It's true?"

He was becoming testy. "There's no need to sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised, you deserve it." She held his face in her hands. "You've always deserved it." She kissed him. "I'm so proud of you."

He was suddenly reminded of his mother when he told her about his first exams, his graduation results, his police entry exams. He pushed her away, embarrassed and a little disgusted that he'd managed to conjure up his mother at a very intimate moment with his girlfriend. On top of that he was now uncomfortable that she said she was proud of him. Why on earth was she proud of him?

It wasn't as if he'd done anything over about above the call of duty. When he had been called back to the UK, he had been under no illusion that it came with a promotion. It simply hadn't been part of the deal, just an understanding that he needed to come back to head up a team in London. If he was honest, he'd been annoyed at first. They'd sent him out against his will. Kept him there against his will, and when he'd started to like it out there they'd sent him back again. And offered him nothing for his trouble. No promotion. No pay rise. Nothing. He'd given up on climbing the ladder at work. Had thought that he'd annoyed too many people earlier in his career for that to have ever happened. He had nothing to be proud of.

He tried to push her hands away, "Camille..." She giggled but held on to him, rolling with him, propping herself up in front of him again.

"And he sent you home?" She sounded more confused by this part of the story.

"He said I was owed time off so I should go home and spent time with you."

She couldn't understand his sudden change in temperament, hated the idea that she might be the source of his annoyance. "Are you in a mood with me?"

"No I'm not in a mood with you!" He resented the fact that she was making him feel 12. The image of his mother flashed in to his head again.

She giggled and leant towards him trying to placate him with another kiss and a soothing tone, "baby..."

That was too much for Richard. "No. Not baby. I am not baby."

She giggled again, trying out the term of endearment for a second time in a teasing manner this time. "Baby..."

"Camille, please no. Literally anything else." She looked like she was about to give him a variation on baby so he cut her off. "Non baby related."

She pouted and he knew he was doomed. That however often he begged Camille not to, she wouldn't listen. The most he could hope for was that no one, _no one, _ever heard his new pet name.

Kissing her, he had found, was the only way he had been able to stop Camille from talking. Out of all the ways to put an end to her teasing it was certainly the best one he could think of. His mouth hurt. He didn't think he'd ever kissed anyone as much as this and he found himself mulling over the fact that being in love was hard work.

He pulled himself up shortly. No, not in love. He wasn't in love. It didn't matter that he was lying to himself, he just didn't want to admit it. Not yet. Not after such a short amount of time. Not when he knew so little about her feelings.

There was so much more to come, at least he hoped there was. Perhaps she might agree to living with him, a life together, perhaps even a family, if the idea wasn't totally abhorrent to her. He found himself idly thinking about where they might live.

Saint Marie. It had to be. He couldn't imagine her anywhere else. He thought about the island and smiled to himself. How strange to think that it had offered him so much when he had hated it so vehemently at the beginning. The heat; the sand; the music; the food; the tiny police station; even the friendliness of its people. He had hated it all. And it had repaid him by giving him Camille.

His thoughts stopped dead, then backed up. The tiny police station. The tiny police station with its tiny budgets.

He hadn't realised that he had sighed quite as loudly as he had. He found the proximity of her face swam in and out of focus a little and was reminded once more about his failing eyesight and the perils of aging. But she needed to know.

"I can't go back."

Sensing that once again the earlier mood had vanished but no idea why Camille found herself trying to guess his thoughts and failing miserably.

"Go back where? Richard?"

"You don't need a DCI." The reality of what he meant began to sink in for her. Budgets. Their budget was too small for him now. There were two choices if they wanted to stay together, he could either give up his job and move to St Marie, or she could apply for a transfer and move to London. She refocused her attention on him and found that he was rambling, "I didn't think that it was going to come down to this so soon. I've just got you back and now..." He took another deep breath and said quietly, "I suppose I could resign..." It was so quiet that she had almost missed it. Clearly Richard didn't think that she would move. She moved to take his hand, snuggling down into his chest.

"We'll survive." She felt him nod, but it had been done in such a half hearted manner that it suggested that he couldn't mimic her confidence. "Week by week. That's all we need, then we can decide what to do."

He tightened his arm around her and pulled her in close, placing a kiss in her hair, praying that she was right and that it would work.


End file.
